


Criminal

by The_Sinking_Ship



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Harry Potter, Bottom Draco, Card Shark Draco Malfoy, Complete, Criminal Draco Malfoy, Domesticity, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Happy Ending, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Humor, M/M, Minor Draco Malfoy/Blaise Zabini, Pining, Playing House, Slow Burn, Top Harry, Topping from the Bottom, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wandless Magic, but nothing too drastic, minor draco/omc, powerful!Harry, references to past Ginny/Harry, smitten!Draco, some homophobic slurs/internalized homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:54:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 83,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27085192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Sinking_Ship/pseuds/The_Sinking_Ship
Summary: Things were going just fine for Draco Malfoy. He successfully conned and counted cards across Europe and America, amassing a small fortune, along with a lengthy rap sheet. That was until he made the grave mistake of returning to England for a high stakes card game and got himself caught – by Harry Potter no less. Now, Draco is stuck in England under Auror Potter’s guard with no friends, no distractions, and no escape. How the hell will he pass the time? And since when did Potter get so bloody fit?
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 678
Kudos: 1166





	1. In which Draco Malfoy gets caught by Harry bloody Potter.

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Преступник](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29697384) by [impostora1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/impostora1/pseuds/impostora1)



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Draco glanced up from his cards and scanned the faces around the table. The lights were low, nothing more than a few clusters of floating candles and a hastily cast orb that hovered above them, drawing long shadows around the room. 

“Bet,” Draco muttered. With a gentle wave of his hand, chips tipped themselves from the top of his teetering stack and rolled to the center of the felt-topped table with the rest of the pot. 

He saw the stout witch with the wild gray hair across from him wince. A tattooed wizard with dark skin and darker eyes slammed his cards down onto the table and shoved his chair back with a noisy scrape. The wizard to Draco’s left shifted in his seat, the corner of his lip twitching under his ginger beard as he cast Draco a sidelong glance. 

“And I’ll raise you fifty, Monsieur Argent,” the bearded man said, his mouth spreading into a slimy grin to reveal a row of crooked, tobacco-stained teeth. His chips joined Draco’s in the pile. 

Draco snorted. McConnell was such an amateur. He only managed an invitation to the table because he was so bloody rich. The man didn’t even bother to hide his tells. If his cards were anything better than complete shite, the idiot would be grinning and bouncing in his chair like a schoolboy. And, unfortunately for Draco, McConnell was on a roll, turning out incredible hand after unbelievable hand, earning him a stack of chips nearly as tall as Draco’s. 

The goblin to McConnell’s left gnashed his teeth and turned his beady black eyes on McConnell as he placed his cards face down on the table. 

“Fold,” the goblin sneered. 

The gray witch gave a curt shake of her head and set her cards down as well. The tattooed wizard had already excused himself to the bar tucked away in a dark corner of the room, and was gulping large mouthfuls of Firewhisky from a crystal tumbler, the smoke curling out his nostrils. That only left Draco. 

McConnell’s cards had to be good because the man was practically vibrating with glee. But Draco’s cards weren’t just good, they were bloody _excellent._

It took Draco years (and a fair number of lost galleons) to master poker. He first learned from an American Muggle on holiday that Draco met whilst staying in Paris. Draco rather liked the stakes in those first games, because as soon as Draco got the hang of the rules, his companion would be down to his knickers in a few hands. Strip poker was fun when your opponent was bronzed, muscular, and prone to skipping pants under his denims, but Draco would argue that it was even more enjoyable when he managed to go home richer than when he arrived. 

It was during a stint in Amsterdam when Draco discovered that the game was rather popular amongst wizarding miscreants and criminals looking to flash a few galleons. The best games were invite-only, as the wizarding government had outlawed high-stakes gambling decades before Draco found himself at a poker table. The Ministry of Magic, and its European and American counterparts, were not fond of those who didn’t earn their living, nor those that chose not to report their winnings or pay their taxes. Regardless, Draco charmed his way into a seat at more than a dozen tables across Europe and the States. The accommodations were usually unsatisfactory and more than a little seedy, but the money made it all worth it. 

For this particular game, Draco found himself back in London. He usually avoided England, although he would quietly pass through on occasion. He never lingered, just took his winnings and slunk back to Paris, or Amsterdam, Rome, Berlin, Vegas, whatever hotel he called home that week. 

Aside from a good cuppa, Draco really didn’t have any reason to return to England. Nearly all his friends from school fled the country after the war, most of them landing on the continent or America. He heard from them occasionally in the year or two immediately following the Battle at Hogwarts, but, as soon as Draco’s paperwork went through and he could leave England, he changed his name and never looked back. Even now, ten years later, in a dark basement only miles from King’s Cross, Draco felt no connection to the island he once considered home. He was a different man now. He was Jacques Argent, an independently wealthy French entrepreneur with some shady connections and a poker game to win. 

Draco took one last glance at the four Jacks in his hand and with a twitch of his finger sent a few more chips into the center of the table. 

“I’ll see your fifty, McConnell,” Draco announced. “Now show me your cards so I can take my money and be on my way.” 

Before the cards fell from McConnell’s fat, red fingers, the heavy steel door to the basement flew open. It slammed against the stone wall and three Aurors in hooded scarlet robes flooded in, wands raised. The goblin disappeared with a snap of his fingers before the Aurors could throw up an anti-apparition barrier, and Draco heard one of them curse loudly. A silvery thread shot from one of the Auror’s wands and wrapped itself around McConnell’s legs and arms, hogtying him and dropping him to the floor with a thud and a grunt. Draco heard the witch shriek at the same time Draco was slammed against the wall, his face smashed against the cool concrete and his arms yanked painfully behind his back. There was a scuffle behind him and the sound of broken glass, followed by a noisy crash. Draco imagined the half-drunk wizard at the bar tossing the bottle of Firewhisky at the Aurors, only to be petrified wordlessly, causing him to tip heavily onto the bar cart. 

“Fuck!” Draco growled. “McConnell, you arsehole, what were your cards? Did I win?” 

Draco felt another powerful blast of magic slam him up against the wall again. Draco’s vision swam and his mouth filled with the taste of blood. One of the Aurors approached and Draco spit a mouthful of blood at his heavy boots, splattering the black leather with red. 

“Excuse me, Mr Auror, could you just read me the cards on the table there and tell me if I won? I have an awful lot of galleons riding on this,” Draco drawled. It wasn’t the first time he’d been tossed around by some blow-hard trying to prove himself with a little unnecessary force. 

“Shut up, Malfoy.” 

Draco froze as the bottom fell out of his stomach. He knew that voice. He knew that voice so well he could pick out its exact timbre from a crowd of a hundred others. He winced as the man pushed back his hood to reveal a mess of jet-black hair and a set of emerald green eyes framed by round black glasses. 

“Been demoted to Vice, Potter?” Draco attempted his usual flippant tone, but it sounded a little weak, even to his own ears. 

“I told you to stop talking, Malfoy,” Potter responded, flatly. 

Draco felt the magic force pressing him to the wall ease slightly, only to spin him around and slam his back against the wall, knocking his skull with a crack. His vision blurred and he blinked rapidly to clear it. Potter stepped closer and looked Draco up and down, his eyes settling on Draco’s face. 

“You’re bleeding,” Potter said, gesturing at Draco’s mouth with his wand. 

“Oh? Yes, well, faces do that when you slam them against walls, Potter.” Draco smirked, licking the blood from his top lip lasciviously. 

Potter’s face remained stony and he turned on his heel and strode toward the door. 

“Watts, take them back to the Ministry. I’ll meet you there,” Potter called to one of the other Aurors, a young man with sandy blonde hair and a spatter of freckles across the bridge of his nose. 

“Aye, Sir,” Watts replied. 

Watts pointed his wand at Draco and he felt the phantom tug of magic pull him toward the door. Draco tried not to stumble as he craned his neck toward the poker table. 

“Excuse me, Watts, is it? Could you be a darling and read me the cards on the table there?” 

Watts gave Draco a hard shove, but the third Auror, a tall, slender woman with short, dark hair cut sharply around her face approached the poker table and flipped the cards dropped in front of McConnell’s seat with her index finger to reveal two queens and three sevens. 

“Full house,” she announced. 

“Hah!” Draco exclaimed triumphantly. “I beat you! You owe me six-hundred galleons, you slimy bogtrotter!” 

McConnell strained against his bonds; his angry mumblings muffled by the magical gag across his lips. 

“ _Silencio!_ ” 

Watts’ silencing charm felt like cotton in Draco’s mouth, but he grinned anyway. As soon as they released him, he’d make sure McConnell paid his debt. Draco wasn’t going to waste four-of-a-kind just because Potter needed to flex his authoritative muscle. Those six-hundred galleons were his, fair and square. 

**** 

Draco flexed his wrist, soothing the tender skin where his Unbreakable Handcuff was looped around the arm of the wobbly metal chair. He shifted in his seat and shot a glance toward the door of the austere interrogation room where he’d sat for nearly two hours. 

It was all wrong. Draco’s crime was a misdemeanour, at worst. He expected nothing more than a stern talking-to and a fine, maybe an embarrassing pat-down, but not this. Not sitting in a dreary cell overnight and then left in an interrogation room, freezing his arse off, while his requests for a floo call to his solicitor were put off, if not outright denied. 

Were his arresting officer anyone other than Potter, he might have made it out unscathed, but there was no charming his way out of Potter’s iron grip. The bastard probably planned to go out of his way to make it as difficult as possible for Draco. 

As if summoned, Draco heard the punctuated click of shoes in the hallway. The door swung open and Head Auror Gawain Robards strode in, flanked by a stony-faced Harry Potter. 

Robards dropped a thick folder on the table between them and lowered himself into the chair across from Draco. Potter remained standing and scowling, his dark brows drawn low over his eyes and his arms crossed over his chest. 

“Mr Malfoy, illegal gambling is taken very seriously at the DMLE.” 

Draco rolled his eyes. “I can see that. Are you planning on ignoring the rights of that tit McConnell as well? Not to mention Swindell, Merlin knows _she's_ got priors. Or am I just particularly lucky?” 

Robards flipped open the folder in front of him, ignoring Draco’s question. “You’ve got quite the rap sheet here, Malfoy. Fraud, theft, unsanctioned use of Polyjuice, impersonating an officer...” 

Draco hummed. “Mm yes, the Americans don’t find that amusing _at all.”_

“Your name is listed on multiple apparition and portkey bans all over the continent. I’m not sure how you managed to enter England undetected, but I assure you, I have no intention of allowing you to skip town as soon as you leave this office.” 

“It’s all a bit out of your jurisdiction, don’t you think?” 

“Technically, yes,” Robards confirmed. “But the gambling isn’t.” 

“Oh please,” Draco replied with a sneer. “That's a stretch, even for this joke of a department.” 

The muscle in Potter’s jaw worked, but Robards continued. 

“According to the Anti-Gambling Statue of 1824 set forth by Bernard Boxley the Third, your repeated infractions will result in a suspension of your travel rights. You are required to remain in England for a period of sixty days, effective immediately.” 

“What?!” Draco sputtered. 

Robards shut the folder with a divisive snap that implied he had no intention of repeating himself. “Were you hoping for Azkaban?” 

“Azkaban? It was a card game, for Merlin’s sake.” 

“Watch your tone, Death Eater.” 

Draco stifled an indignant growl. 

“It’s pretty lenient as far as sentences for accused war criminals go,” Robards explained, his lips curling in contempt. 

Potter’s eyes flicked to Robards and his expression grew inexplicably stormier, but Draco didn’t have time to bother with Potter’s moodiness. His freedom was at stake over nothing more than a card game and a few galleons. 

“And what am I expected to do for the next two months?” Draco spat. 

“What you do with your time is your own business,” Robards said. “So long as you stay out of trouble and don’t break any laws, then you’ll be free to go about your business after your time is served. You will, of course, be required to submit to regular check-ins with a parole Auror, at which time your wand will be subjected to a revealing spell, just to make sure you are staying within the parameters of your sentence.” 

Ah, there it was, the catch Draco was expecting. They were going to hover over him like a swarm of bloodthirsty doxies, waiting for Draco to make a single infraction - just enough of an excuse to lock him away forever. It was what they all wanted anyway. Except for Potter, maybe, considering his testimony was the only reason Draco walked free after the trials. 

But Robards wasn’t finished. “Auror Potter will serve as your parole officer.” 

Potter's arms flexed where they crossed over his chest, and his hands balled into fists. There was a tension radiating from him that Draco could practically taste in the air – a crackling of wild magic that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. 

“You’re kidding,” Draco said with a startled laugh. 

“You find something about that funny, Malfoy?” Robards tone was benign but his expression was sharp and drenched in loathing. 

“You’ve got _Harry Potter_ working parole? Pardon me, sir, but yes, I do.” 

Potter shot him a sidelong glance, his mouth a grim line. 

“I have no doubt Potter will do a more than adequate job.” 

“Bit like using a blasting curse to deal with a garden spider, but whatever you say. So, where am I expected to go now?” 

“Not my concern.” Robards collected the folder from the table and stood – an obvious dismissal. 

“I’m just meant to wander the streets aimlessly for the next two months? Merlin, it’s almost like you want me fuck up.” 

Robards' face was starting to turn a lovely shade of purple. “Surely you can find someone who can tolerate you for the duration. Figure it out. You can pick up your wand and personal effects from evidence. Auror Potter will escort you.” 

With a flick of Potter’s wand, the cuff around Draco’s wrist released with a metallic clank. He rubbed at it gingerly.

Potter stood at the door with one hand on the knob while Draco got slowly to his feet, gave a dramatic bow to Robards, and made sure to add an extra sway to his hips as he walked out of the interrogation room. 

Potter didn’t say a word, just stalked to the evidence window, tension and magic still crackling around him like static electricity. Draco took the opportunity to look his fill, without Potter’s unnervingly green eyes watching him. 

Potter was taller than Draco remembered, but still a couple of inches shorter than himself, thank Merlin. He would hate to have Potter looming over him. But Potter was undoubtedly stronger and broader, if the way his robes fell across his shoulders were any indication. His hair was still a riotous mess, but it looked more artful and less sloppy than it had when they were boys. A bit sexier too, which was a rather alarming thought. 

A grumpy-looking witch behind the evidence desk opened a drawer and extracted Draco’s wallet and Muggle mobile phone and placed them on the counter. Draco grabbed them and shoved them into his pockets. If Potter noticed the Muggle object, he didn’t mention it. 

She then pulled a weighty keyring from a nail on the wall and after a few moments of fumbling, selected a long, silver skeleton key. She inserted the key into the lock of one of the hundreds of small boxes, each numbered and sporting a differently shaped keyhole. She retrieved Draco’s wand from the box and handed it to Potter. 

Potter flipped the wand in his fist and then held it out to Draco. It was an uncomfortably intimate gesture, Draco thought, but it wasn’t the first time Potter had got handsy with his wand. Of course, Draco’s last wand remained buried somewhere in the Department of Mysteries. It wasn’t as if they were going to return the wand that killed the Dark Lord to an eighteen-year-old convicted criminal. And anyway, his new one served just fine, thank you very much. 

“Sit,” Potter ordered, pointing to a chair next to the evidence locker. 

Draco did, although he took his time about it. He didn’t want Potter to get the idea that he could order Draco around like that, pointing and grunting one-word commands like some kind of uniformed ape. 

Potter stepped in front of Draco and placed his wand against the center of Draco’s forehead, right between his eyebrows. Draco leaned into it and looked at Potter through his lashes. 

“This is a tracking charm, so we’ll know if you leave London. It stings a bit,” Potter explained. 

“Do your worst, Potter,” Draco said with a wink. 

Potter’s eyes flicked away from where his wand was pointed to meet Draco’s gaze and then narrowed. 

Draco hissed when he felt the zing of Potter’s spell against his skin. He hadn’t even heard Potter utter the words, which was more than a bit unsettling. If Potter was just flinging around wordless magic like that, it was no wonder Robards kept him on a short leash. 

“It also means I’ll be able to find you if you skip out on our meetings,” Potter said. 

“So, I suppose there is no use informing you of where I end up staying then?” 

Potter shook his shaggy head. 

“Am I going to get any sort of warning? Or should I be worried that Harry Potter is going to appear out of thin air when I’m otherwise occupied?” Draco asked, his words heavy with implication. 

Potter’s flush was immediate and incredibly fetching. 

“You’ll receive an appointment time via owl.” 

Draco leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “So, what exactly did you do to that twat Robards to get this assignment?” 

Potter’s flush deepened and his jaw tightened. A sensitive subject, Draco took note. 

“What makes you think I didn’t request it?” 

Draco didn’t even try to stifle his laugh. “Oh, come on. When have you ever requested my company?” 

“Maybe you should consider yourself lucky that you get me and not someone else,” said Potter.

“I think you and I have very different ideas about what ‘lucky’ means.” 

“I meant that I might be one of the few Aurors here who wouldn’t take the opportunity to make your life hell.” 

Draco scoffed. “Potter, just by existing you make my life hell.” 

Potter rolled his eyes. “Nice, Malfoy. Really nice. You’re free to go, by the way.” 

“Fantastic. I’ll be seeing you then, Potter.” 

“Yes,” Potter said, sounding resigned. “You will. And Malfoy, don’t do anything stupid, okay?” 

Draco just flapped a hand over his shoulder and pushed his way out of the DMLE, into the Ministry atrium, and out the front door. 

He hesitated on the sidewalk, unsure where to go next. 

The manor was gone, reclaimed by the Wizengamot, dismantled and demolished immediately following Lucius’s conviction. It wasn’t as if the elder Malfoy would have any use for it from his permanent cell in Azkaban. And those final weeks that Draco spent in the Manor were a whole new brand of horror he wouldn’t ever want to revisit. Ghosts stalked the halls, screaming at all hours of the night. Draco shuddered at the memory. Narcissa and her wounded pride fled to France. She still visited her husband in prison regularly, even though Draco hadn’t been to see him in years. The place gave him the willies, and seeing the husk of a man Lucius had become made Draco’s stomach turn. He still visited his mother though. Her luxurious flat in the Riviera was Draco’s favourite place to unwind after a bender. 

Unfortunately, that left Draco with very few options. Pansy lived in the city. Gods, it had been ages since he’d seen her. But the idea of staying in the flat she shared with Lovegood, of all people, was a little nauseating. It wasn’t even the kipping on the sofa that put him off it. He’d done more than his share of that over the past few years. No, it was their disgustingly sappy love that he couldn’t tolerate. Separately they were fine, but the soppy looks they gave each other all day were too much for Draco to withstand. 

Greg had gotten married and moved to Berlin. They had dinner when Draco was in town. Nott was out of the question. Theo took it a bit hard after the last time Draco burned through town, drank a bit too much elven wine, and took off before Nott could even thank him for the fuck. That only left one option. 

Draco pulled out his mobile and after only a small amount of fumbling, located the number he sought. He took a deep breath and hit the call button.

_“Hello?"_

“Blaise! I’ve got good news! I’m in town and I’m coming over.” 

  
  



	2. In which Harry Potter is just fine. Seriously.

Harry slammed the door to his office hard enough to shake the walls and hoped Robards felt it all the way at the end of the hall. He slumped against the door and carded a hand roughly through his hair. 

Fucking Robards. Fucking _Malfoy_. 

It was supposed to be a routine bust. McConnell was a prick, but he’d offered up enough low-level crooks and underworld cronies to the department that Harry learned to tolerate him. He’d promised Harry a slimy Frenchman by the name of Argent, who’d managed to con his way across Europe and America with nothing more than a fat wallet and a sleight of hand. Harry nearly dropped his wand when he caught sight of his target’s shock of blonde hair and familiar sneer – the one that still managed to make something in Harry’s gut twist and roil, even after all those years. The force behind his Expelliarmus had been an accident. Harry liked to think he had control of his magic these days, but sometimes it still managed to get away from him. And he reckoned Draco Malfoy was a predictable trigger for a magical outburst. 

Now he was saddled with the wanker for the next two months and Harry was certain that Robards had done it on purpose. 

“Watch him,” he’d said as they walked toward the interrogation room. “One misstep and we’ll throw that sniveling little Death Eater spawn back in Azkaban with the rest of them. Maybe then you’ll finally earn that promotion you’ve been petitioning for, Potter.” 

Harry ground his teeth together so hard it was a wonder he hadn’t cracked a molar. Even if Harry caught Malfoy and a dozen other would-be Death Eaters in the act of sacrificing babies with _I Heart Voldemort_ tattooed across their faces, there’d still be no promotion for Harry, not so long as Robards sat behind the Head Auror’s desk. 

Harry thumped his head against the door. It was only half one and he already needed a drink. Thank Merlin it was pub night. 

****

At exactly six o’clock, Harry shucked his Auror robes and apparated to The Leaky. His friends were already there, and his anger thawed slightly at the sight of them huddled around their usual table. 

Hermione was sipping a glass of chardonnay and chatting with Neville, who was home for the summer from his post as Assistant Herbology Professor at Hogwarts. Ron sat next to her, one arm thrown around her shoulder, laughing loudly at something Seamus had said. Dean was poking away at the buttons of a mobile flip phone, probably trying to text his Muggle girlfriend with little success (they’d told him it wouldn’t work properly in magical places, but Dean was obsessed). Luna sat at the end of the table, braiding a red ribbon into Pansy Parkinson’s slick dark hair, which Parkinson indulged. 

Luna spotted Harry first and waved. Harry dragged a chair noisily from a nearby table dropped down into it next to Ron, snagged Ron’s half-drunk lager, and drained it in one pull. 

“Hey!” Ron protested, making to grab it away, but it was already too late. 

Harry slammed the empty pint glass down onto the table. “You would have given it to me anyway as soon as you hear about the day I’ve just had.” 

Everyone swiveled toward Harry. His stories of working Vice for the DMLE had become a thing of legend amongst their group. What had begun as a casual meeting of friends after work had taken on new life when Harry started expounding on his busts of illegal potions dealers, Veela prostitution rings, and unicorn trafficking. The wild cast of characters never failed to amuse, even if Harry himself felt a bit like he was wasting his time chasing after lowlifes and down-and-out petty criminals instead of actual dark wizards. 

“Guess who I arrested last night,” Harry bated as everyone leaned in closer. Harry gestured to Hannah Abbot at the bar for a drink of his own. “No, really. I want you to try and guess.” 

“Niels Nithercott from the Weird Sisters again?” Dean said hopefully, mobile momentarily forgotten in his hand. 

“Nope.” 

“The peg-legged Polyjuice peddler?” Neville guessed. 

Harry shook his head. 

"Dragon breeders?” 

"Black market mermaid-tail poachers?” 

“Not this time,” Harry said. 

“C’mon Harry, you’re going to have to narrow it down a bit. Is it someone famous?” Ron asked. 

Harry wobbled his head. “Yeah, sort of. But not like a celebrity. I’ll give you a hint, it’s someone we all know. Someone from school.” 

"Marcus Flint? I heard he’s been in trouble for playing bookie at the Puddlemere games,” Hannah guessed as she set down Harry’s usual Firewhisky and leaned against the back of Neville’s chair. 

“No, but you’re getting closer.” 

“McGonagall?” Seamus shouted. 

“No! Thank Merlin not. Seriously, Seamus?” 

“Tell me it wasn’t George again,” Ron said with a sigh. 

“No. Definitely not.” 

“This is ridiculous! Just tell us, Harry!” Hermione said, throwing up her hands. 

Harry set down his drink. “Draco fucking Malfoy.” 

The group collectively leaned back, eyes wide – apart from Parkinson, who stiffened, her sharp brows drawing together. 

“He’s here? In England?” Ron asked. 

“Yup. Busted him during an illegal poker game.” 

“Hush, Harry! That’s supposed to be confidential,” Hermione chided as Harry felt the bubble of her privacy charm strengthen around them like the walls of a fortress. 

“What are they gonna do, ‘Mione,” Ron said, rolling his eyes. “Fire him?” 

“God willing,” Harry mumbled into his drink. 

“Is he still here?” Parkinson asked, her voice clipped but her expression inscrutable. 

“Yeah, he’s grounded here through the end of July.” 

“Seems a rather harsh punishment for such a minor infraction,” Hermione mused with a frown. 

“No kidding,” Harry agreed. “And if that wasn’t enough, Robards assigned me his keeper.” 

Ron groaned sympathetically. “Insult to injury. Tough luck, mate.” 

They all muttered their agreement and Harry was treated to another whisky in sympathy. 

The subject changed to lighter topics, such as Luna and Pansy’s upcoming trip to the Azores, Dean’s discovery of the magic of Muggle telly, and the new line of First Love Beguiling Bubbles available at the Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. 

Shortly later, Ginny breezed in, her cheeks pink from the weeks of Quidditch training on the Welsh coast, ginger hair spilling from the messy bun on top of her head and sticking to her freckled forehead. 

“Sorry I’m late,” she said breathlessly. “Portkey got delayed. Lovely to see you lot didn’t bother waiting.” 

Hannah brought her a pint and gave her a one-armed hug in welcome before returning to the bar. 

Ginny took a long drink, resurfacing only when half the beer was gone. 

“Merlin, Weasley, it’s a wonder you can even lift a drink with the weight of that thing on your finger,” Parkinson said with a smirk. 

Ginny cackled and held out her left hand, wiggling the ring finger where a hefty diamond sparkled. “It’s a bit ridiculous, isn’t it? About fell off my broomstick when the sun hit it just right. Fucking thing nearly blinded me.” 

“Looks like Ian wanted to make sure everyone could see it all the ways from the stands,” Dean said. 

“Blimey, you could see that thing from France,” Ron exclaimed. 

Ginny punched her brother in the shoulder and settled down next to Harry. 

“Ow! It’s sharp too!” Ron whinged, rubbing at his shoulder while Hermione rolled her eyes. 

The conversation carried on all around them. Harry was feeling fuzzy and warm from the whisky when Ginny leaned in, her chin resting on his shoulder. 

“Harry, could I have a word?” 

“Course.” 

She twisted toward him, propping her combat boots on the supports of his chair and crossing her hands in her lap. “Now, Harry, I know you’re horribly broken up about the fact that I’m getting married.” 

Harry rolled his eyes and cracked a grin. “Totally beside myself. Cry myself to sleep every night.” 

She patted him on the shoulder condescendingly. “So, as a consolation, Ian and I have agreed to make you my maid of honor.” 

Harry choked on his sip of whisky. “You’ll not get me into a dress, Gin. Not again.” 

“Pity, you have such lovely legs,” She pouted. “Fine, a suit will have to suffice then.” 

Harry leaned back in his chair. “You’re serious?” 

“Of course I’m serious, Harry. You’re pretty much my closest friend.” 

“Bit weird though, isn’t it? Having your ex stand next to you while you marry someone else? It’s not exactly normal.” 

Harry and Ginny had managed to stay thick as thieves despite their breakup two years after the end of the war. They had tried to make it work, but what once felt like a fire burning between them fizzled into something softer and more comfortable over time. Harry was almost relieved when Ginny broke it off with him, no longer feeling the pressure to live up to the Weasleys’ unobtainable standards for their only daughter, and free from the constant scrutiny of the press. He missed her, of course. Ginny was excellent company and always managed to fill a room with her boundless, ferocious energy. But after Ginny left, something had shifted in Harry. The feelings he spent years ignoring and pushing away for the sake of living up to the expectations for the wizarding world’s Golden Boy refused to remain buried. He kept his secrets close still, always wary. Harry wasn’t even sure his friends would be so keen if they found out he fucked men as well as women. 

Ginny shrugged. “Since when have I ever done anything one would consider normal? It’s overrated anyway.” 

“Are you sure, Gin? You don’t want to ask someone else? You have loads of friends besides me.” 

“I don’t want some tittering nitwit to fluff my dress, Harry. I need someone to tell me when I’m being horrid, hold my hand when I’m freaking out, keep Mum off my back when she inevitably tries to commandeer the planning. I need you. Fuck everyone else. You’re who I want up there with me and I won’t take no for an answer.” 

Something hard lodged itself in Harry’s throat. 

“All right,” he choked. “If that’s really what you want.” 

“It is. Now, pull yourself together. If my brother catches you tearing up like that, he’ll never let you hear the end of it. Merlin, Harry, you’re such an embarrassing sop when it comes to weddings.” 

And Harry really couldn’t disagree with that. 

The night wore on and eventually, everyone began to filter away. Ginny went back to the Burrow to stay with her mum and dad for the weekend before she had to return to Holyhead for practice. Dean went to meet his girlfriend at some Muggle club, while Pansy and Luna had managed to disappear hours prior without so much as a goodbye, so wrapped up in their strange love as they always seemed to be. 

It was just Ron and Hermione left at the table with Harry. Hermione’s head rested on Ron’s shoulder and Harry let the comfortable peace he always found with them wash over him. Sometimes he wished he could live in moments like that forever. He dreaded the thought of having to return to Grimmauld Place, with its draughty hallways and scowling pureblood portraits. 

It was the loneliness that was the worst part – the deafening silence and solitude that seemed to seep from the walls of Number Twelve and into his skin. It didn’t seem to matter how much noise he filled it with, how many fires he burned in the grate, how the sun sweltered outside, it always felt cold and miserable to Harry. 

In fact, there were very few corners of Harry’s life that the misery had not infiltrated. While it was nothing like the fear that permeated the years leading up to the Battle of Hogwarts, nor did it compare to the excruciating months of media circus that followed. No, this was different. It was a slow, creeping dread that manifested over a number of years – a slimy sickening pit in his stomach that only seemed to ache when he was alone in the dark. 

He had tried to fill it. He made friends stay over, tried to make it work with Ginny, even though they were both completely miserable together. He dated here and there, took home plenty of girls, and then, not long later, plenty of boys. But it always came back. Even when there was a body next to him, it was there, eating away at him. He wondered if eventually there would be nothing of him left. 

As if sensing his melancholy like an impending rainstorm, Hermione took Harry’s hand in her own. 

“Want to stay at ours tonight?” she asked. 

Relief flooded Harry with warmth. 

“I wouldn’t want to impose,” he argued feebly, even though he knew it was no use. 

“Oh, Harry, you’re never an imposition, you know that.” 

“Yeah, mate,” Ron chimed in. “We love having you around. And ‘Mione always makes hotcakes for breakfast when you stay.” 

“You’re just using me for the breakfast foods, then?” Harry said, the smile returning, albeit smaller and weaker. 

“You bet,” Ron conceded. 

They let Hermione apparate them since she was the least drunk and could manage it in only two jumps. As soon as he felt the ground solid beneath his feet, Harry took in a deep inhale of briny air and felt the twisting ache in his stomach ease. 

Ron and Hermione had bought a cottage by the sea the year after they were married, and Harry had never loved a home as much as theirs. It even outshined the Burrow, though he would never admit it to Mrs. Weasley. 

The cottage was cluttered and comfortable, with squishy furniture and surfaces piled high with books, framed photos of friends and family, gadgets and knickknacks Ron and George were testing for the shop. 

Harry dropped into what everyone considered _his_ armchair with a sigh while Hermione went to go make tea. Ron settled into the sofa across from Harry and unlaced his boots, dropping them with a thunk onto the ground, and stretching out his long legs to let his feet rest on the coffee table. 

“So, how long until you have to see Malfoy again?” he asked. 

Harry groaned and mussed his hair with one hand. “I don’t know. Next week sometime.” 

“I’d have given my left bollock to see you nab him. Did you break his nose or anything?” 

“Maybe bust his lip a little,” Harry said with a covert grin. 

“That’s barbaric, Harry. And you know better,” Hermione chided, setting a cup of chamomile next to Harry and folding herself into the sofa beside Ron. 

“It was an accident,” Harry admitted. “It wasn’t like I was expecting to see him. I lost my grip.” 

Hermione frowned into her steaming mug. “That’s not like you. You’ve had your magic under control for years now.” 

“Seriously, ‘Mione? It’s _Malfoy_. Harry’s never been quite right around him,” Ron said, smirking at Harry. 

“I can hear you, you know,” Harry grumbled. 

“How many times did you go over his file today, Harry? Be honest,” Ron said, the tilt of his head and the lift of his right brow implied he knew it had been more than was entirely necessary. 

Harry scowled. It was his _job_. He needed to know what to expect, particularly now that he was to be the Auror in charge of Malfoy’s parole. And okay, maybe he’d spent more time pulling anything he could find on Draco Malfoy, as well as his alias, Jacques Argent, than he would have another misdemeanor criminal. There wasn’t much, really. Nothing that signaled that Malfoy was doing anything particularly dark. And nothing that constituted a sentence in Azkaban, certainly. But Harry was curious, he couldn’t help it. 

There’d been a few mugshots pulled from Muggle files of Malfoy looking haughty and prim that maybe Harry had lingered over. There’d been a warrant for illegal potion use and a couple of complaints of carrying restricted items across magical borders, but no matter how deep Harry dug, there was nothing really _evil_ in Malfoy’s criminal past. Robards would be disappointed, no doubt. 

“Hah, I knew it,” Ron exclaimed, and Harry’s scowl deepened. 

“I don’t like this, Harry. Couldn’t Robards have assigned someone else? _Anyone_ else?” Hermione asked. 

Harry shrugged. “Probably, but there isn’t anyone else he wants to punish as much as me.” 

“Right, but this is practically sadistic. Doesn’t he know what the two of you were like in school?” Ron added. 

“I don’t know,” Harry said. “But you know he likes to stick me with the shit cases ever since the Ingalls fiasco.” 

Ron and Hermione winced in unison. 

“That wasn’t your fault, Harry,” Hermione said softly. “You do know that don’t you?” 

“Yeah,” Harry said with a sigh. “We've been over it a hundred times, Hermione. I know.” 

And he did know, even though that didn’t stop the nightmares – the visions of two kids ringed in halos of blood. But he didn’t talk about that with Ron and Hermione. They didn’t need to worry about him any more than they already did. 

The whole case had been a massive cock-up. He knew he should have waited, should have called for backup, even though it wouldn’t have changed the outcome or saved those boys. He thought he could manage it on his own. It was his case, after all, and the Death Eater ring had targeted him, specifically. Calling in his team would have put everyone in danger and Robards had already cut Harry’s budget down to next to nothing, leaving him with barely a skeleton crew for the night shift. When Harry received the call that the group of Neo Death Eaters that had been sending Harry cryptic threats for weeks had taken hostages, Harry didn’t think twice. He apparated right into the thick of it, just as they’d hoped he would. It was a trap. He’d managed to take down nearly a dozen of them, but the hostages were already dead – a fatal Reducto to the head for each of them. Harry found them in a back room. They couldn’t have been more than twelve years old. Just a couple of Muggleborns, tracked by curses on their Hogwarts letters. 

It was a PR disaster. Robards already had it in for Harry, certain that his position as Head Auror was in jeopardy. He pinned the entire thing on Harry, had him demoted to Vice instead of firing him, preferring to keep him under his thumb until Harry quit or snapped. But Harry didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. 

It had been better when Ron was there. They’d aced Auror training and with Ron at his side, Harry felt like they could have taken on the world. But it only took two cases before Ron threw in the towel. 

“I just can’t do it anymore,” he’d told Harry, slumped over a pint one night, his eyes glassy and red-rimmed. “I just don’t want to keep fighting.” 

He’d gone to work with George at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes and never looked back. Harry was happy for him. Really, he was. But he missed his best mate, missed the future he’d had all planned out, before it fell apart around him. 

“You know,” Hermione began tentatively. “You don’t have to stay there. You don’t have to let Robards push you around forever.” 

“What else would I do, Hermione? Besides, Merlin knows I’m good at it,” Harry said, even though they both knew what he meant was, _I don’t know how to do anything else._

“You could always come work with me at PUFF. You do own it and all.” 

Hermione managed Peace and Unity for a Fruitful Future, an umbrella organization for the range of charities she’d helped Harry found after the end of the war. She was brilliant at it, of course. And while Harry was happy to help in any way he could, the day to day operations were completely over his head. 

“I’m just the name on the vault,” Harry said. “And anyway, I’m bollocks at all the fundraising and schmoozing.” 

“Too right,” Ron agreed with a grin. “Remember when Harry tried to get a donation out of Lady Dalton and she thought he was coming onto her?” 

Harry shivered. “She tried to put her knickers in my pocket.” 

“Harry, she’s eighty-five! I still don’t understand how you could have managed that so poorly,” Hermione chided. 

“Yeah,” Ron said. “Maybe it’s best we keep Harry behind the scenes at PUFF. Just parade him around on occasion, let him wave at the grannies, and send him home before he breaks all their hearts, and you lose your financial backing.” 

They all laughed. 

“Okay, so not PUFF. We just want you to be happy, Harry,” Hermione said with a soft smile. 

“I know. It’s fine. I’m fine. Don’t worry so much about me,” Harry replied. 

“It’s what she does, Harry,” Ron said, patting Harry’s knee. 

They all finished their tea and Hermione brought Harry a blanket and a pillow. She stretched a fresh bed sheet over the sofa for him, like she always did. 

Harry accepted a hearty, back-slapping hug from Ron and a kiss on the forehead from Hermione before settling down to sleep. 

The nightmares didn’t plague him here. Something about the sea air, the soft cushions, and the comfort of knowing that he was safe and loved chased away the darkness from his mind, if only temporarily. 

He knew his friends worried about him - and not just Ron and Hermione, but Ginny and Luna, Neville, all the Weasleys. They often looked at him, concern darkening their eyes when they thought he wasn’t watching. They talked about him when he wasn’t there, he was sure of it. But they needn’t worry. Sure, Harry had trouble sleeping. And sometimes, he felt a little lonely or lost, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle. 

It was fine. He was fine. 

Really. 


	3. In which Blaise Zabini clearly overpaid the decorator, but bloody hell, the view!

Blaise owned the penthouse in a ridiculous posh high-rise in Southwark. The building was a new construction and the epitome of the magic-meets-Muggle design that had grown exceedingly popular in the years following the war. Muggle technology rarely functioned without special considerations in magical design, and from the slick Muggle-friendly reception to the complex warding system, the building boasted a seamless integration of magic and modern technology. It looked a bit out of place amongst the squat old townhouses and Romanesque cathedral – a gleaming blemish on the London skyline. 

It also cost a bloody fortune. 

The internal wards were still set against him, so Draco rode the lift from the lobby to the top floor. The lift doors opened directly into an expansive foyer that spilled into an open plan living room, complete with luxe leather furniture, a glass-topped coffee table, a rug in an animal print Draco couldn’t identify, and an entire wall stuffed with records, all neatly arranged by the colors of their sleeves. The entire external wall was floor to ceiling windows and the sun hanging low in the sky over London cast the room in a spectacular rose gold glow. 

It was anything but homey and screamed I-Overpaid-For-A-Decorator, in Draco’s opinion. The place was so pristine it was almost ascetic, but Draco already knew that Blaise spent very little time in London, using the penthouse as a crash pad and a place to bring the types of women Blaise preferred – that is, spoilt, manicured, and magically (or surgically) enhanced within an inch of their lives. 

“Blaise?” Draco called. 

Blaise appeared, clad in a slim-fitted black suit and a crisp white shirt with the top two buttons undone, revealing the smooth planes of his lean, dark chest. There was a frosty-glassed martini in each of his long-fingered hands. When he smiled, his straight teeth flashed blinding white. Draco couldn’t help the lascivious smirk that stretched across his face. Blaise always had that effect on him, the flash bastard that he was. 

“Draco,” Blaise handed one of the glasses to Draco, pressed a cool hand against his cheek, and kissed the other. He smelled like fresh citrus and amber musk and Draco’s mouth watered in response. “So, how long did you last on English soil before you got yourself arrested?” 

Draco smirked. “Two days.” 

Blaise’s responding laugh was loud and deep and it made Draco go tingly all over. “Excuse me for not being surprised.” 

“I’d like to think I’m a little more evasive than that,” Draco said, clutching his chest in mock offense as he followed Blaise to the living room, sipping his martini, which was delightful and exactly what he needed after a night in a cell at the DMLE. Thank Merlin he was crack with a cleaning charm because there was no way he was going to show up at Blaise’s front door with a blood-stained shirt and smelling of sweat and the over-brewed excuse for coffee all the Aurors drank. 

Draco moved to stand at the window, watching the last rays of summer sun flash across the glass of the Shard. Fuck, he could get used to a view like this. 

“Draco, the last time I saw you I watched you do a line of cocaine off a stripper’s arse, swung from a nineteenth-century chandelier, and then spent the hours until dawn evading the authorities, as well as the homeowner, who appeared a little less than pleased that we’d broken into her summer home, I might add.” 

“It was Ibiza, Blaise. It’s practically expected.” 

Blaise’s expression sobered slightly but was still tinged with exasperated fondness. “And this is London. You’ll have to tread a little lighter while you’re here, you know. They’ll be waiting for you to slip up again. They’d like nothing more than to tack you down for the first thing they can.” 

“About that…” 

Blaise set his martini down on the glass coffee table and slouched elegantly into his leather sofa, arms stretched across the back, straining the buttons of his shirt. He studied Draco with a knowing expression that made Draco want to squirm. 

“What do you need, Draco? Can’t be money. Circe knows you’ve got plenty.” 

It was true, Draco had amassed a small fortune since his exile. It was nothing in comparison to the fortune that had been ripped from him after the war, but Draco was nothing if not ambitious, especially where his pocketbook was concerned. 

“It’s not money.” 

“So, what is it then?” 

Draco shifted in his seat. “I’m on parole.” 

Blaise’s sharp brows twitched upwards. “I see.” 

“You know I wouldn’t ask if I weren’t desperate, but I need a place to stay. Most of my cash is tied up in Muggle accounts in America. I’ve got no place else to go.” 

Blaise sighed and rubbed his hands together. “All right, Draco. What are the conditions?” 

“Sixty days in England then I’m free to fuck off and get out of your hair.” 

“That’s all? Doesn’t sound so bad.” 

“Says you,” Draco replied dismissively. He didn’t want to explain to Blaise how anxious it made him to linger in any one place too long, especially when that place was England, haunted by all of Draco’s biggest mistakes. “Oh, and I have to suffer through weekly check-ins with a parole Auror.” 

“I pity whatever poor sod they got to watch you.” 

“It’s Potter,” Draco said with a sneer. 

Blaise looked like he was trying to stifle a smile. 

“Does that amuse you, Zabini?” 

“Are you kidding? It’s brilliant. Whoever picked your sentence knows exactly how to torture you.” 

“You just love to watch me suffer don’t you.” 

“Only a little,” Blaise said with a wink. “You can stay here as long as you want. It’ll be nice to have you around again.” 

“Ta, darling. I’ll be happy to express my gratitude often and with great enthusiasm.” 

****

The first thing Draco did was call his private banker in New York and have a sizable sum of cash, both Muggle and wizarding, available for pick up. There was no way he was going to let Gringotts get their grubby little hands on it, certainly not when the authorities were trailing him, and Muggle credit cards left too much evidence. Cash would have to do. 

The second thing Draco did was go shopping. He didn’t really have a permanent residence and kept much of his sizable wardrobe and any personal effects at his mother’s in France. Draco would throw himself off London Bridge before he would admit to Narcissa he’d been busted again, so that only left him one option. He was going to need some new clothes. 

Draco loved to shop. He loved the way the consultants would flutter around him, showering him with compliments, measuring tapes whipping around them, bottles of champagne brandished as soon as they realized Draco’s pockets were as deep and his taste was expensive. There was Harrods, Burberry, Prada, and Valentino, then Twilfits in Diagon Alley. Draco even treated himself to tea at Claridge's in Mayfair. 

When he returned to Blaise’s penthouse, the foyer was filled with sacks and garment bags and Blaise was standing in the middle of all of it smiling and brandishing a silk tie in a deep, royal aubergine that suited his complexion beautifully, as Draco knew it would. 

“Gods, Blaise, did you rip through all of them looking for gifts?” 

“This is for me isn’t it?” Blaise said with a grin. 

“How could you tell?” 

“You wouldn’t be caught dead in purple.” 

“Yes, well, I thought it would go well with the garnet cufflinks.” 

Blaise’s eyes lit like he’d won the Triwizard Cup and Draco gestured toward a powder blue Tiffany’s bag tucked amongst the Harrod’s haul. 

They went out for dinner at a chic new fusion restaurant in Soho. Draco loved the way everyone’s eyes followed them. Blaise was always stunning and refined, and his dark clothing and deep complexion were so complimentary to Draco’s dove-gray suit. After dinner, Draco got on his knees and sucked Blaise off on his posh leather sofa with the glittering sprawl of London as the backdrop. 

It always played out like that between them. Blaise didn’t bottom and Draco didn’t mind. It was a convenience fuck and nothing more. Blaise’s interest in men was purely sexual anyway. He preferred to date women and Draco didn’t look at it as anything more than a rather gorgeous means to an end. They were friends and Draco liked fucking his friends. He found it a hell of a lot easier than dating most of the time. At least his friends knew who he was and knew better than to expect anything from him. 

It was mates or strangers for Draco. 

As he lay next to Blaise on the couch, sated and still half-dressed, Draco thought maybe the next couple of months wouldn’t be so bad after all. 

****

“What do you mean you’re leaving?” 

Blaise was neatly folding his trousers and tucking them into a Louis Vuitton suitcase. Draco leaned against the doorframe and watched him do it, spinning the silver signet ring on his index finger as he often did when he needed something to do with his hands. 

“Duty calls, I’m afraid.” 

Blaise had several investment properties all over the world. His most recent ventures were in Dubai, where he, along with an oil magnate and an Arab prince, was the primary financial backers for a new skyscraper. 

“But what am I supposed to do here all by myself while you’re away?” 

“You mean _who_ are you going to do?” Blaise teased. 

“I’ll die of boredom and it will be all your fault,” Draco whinged. 

“Don’t be so dramatic. I know you can entertain yourself just fine without me.” 

“Fine,” Draco grumbled, even though he really wasn’t sure he would be fine. “But I’m taking your room.” 

“If you must. Just have the sheets changed before I get back.” Blaise zipped the suitcase with a sense of finality. 

“How long will you be gone?” 

“Hard to say. Three weeks at least. Maybe longer. You’ll have to come with me next time. When your parole is over, of course.” 

“Pass. Too hot. Too much sand.” 

Blaise scoffed. “Says the man who spends half his time in Las Vegas.” 

“A necessary evil, I’m afraid.” 

“Fine. We’ll go to Morocco instead. That hotel I invested in is finally finished. You’ll love it. Pools and posh restaurants, fit blokes. All your favorite things.” 

“I suppose that would be acceptable. I’ll consider forgiving you. When we get there.” Draco conceded. 

“What a relief,” Blaise said with a chuckle. He slung his suitcase over his shoulder and patted Draco on the cheek. “Take care, love. Don’t let any of your little playthings steal anything.” 

“No promises,” Draco grumbled. 

“There’s a good lad. See you in a few weeks.” 

Blaise was out the door in a swirl of cologne and floating suitcases and suddenly the vast penthouse seemed just a touch too large, too quiet. 

****

It was only his first week in England and Draco was already going out of his mind with boredom. He paced Blaise’s penthouse like a caged cat. He raided Blaise’s closet and wine cabinet. He watched the telly and leafed through his record collection. But mostly, he wanked on every surface, just to spite Blaise for leaving him behind. 

Two days later, Draco received an official owl from the ministry confirming that Auror Potter would be meet him at twelve o'clock on Thursday and Draco almost found himself looking forward to it. Antagonizing Potter used to be one of Draco’s favourite activities in school, second only to Quidditch and scoring a higher mark than Granger. And anyway, it would break up the monotony. 

Wednesday night, Draco stayed up drinking, playing poker online on Blaise’s laptop, watching AbFab reruns. He didn’t even manage to haul himself into Blaise’s gigantic bed (with _black silk sheets_ , the tart!) until dawn was already tinging the horizon. He wasn’t worried. He deserved a bit of a lie-in. 

Of course, that meant Draco didn’t wake up until a quarter to noon to the sounds of the front desk ringing him. Draco barely managed a breath-freshening charm and a piss before the lift doors were sliding open and Harry Potter was standing there, looking a bit bewildered in dark scarlet robes, his magic filling the room like a physical thing. 

Well shit. 

  
  



	4. In which Draco Malfoy wears silk pyjamas and Harry doesn’t even notice them. Nope. Not at all.

Harry recast the tracking spell. The small orb that shot from his wand bobbed and danced in front of the double glass doors of a gleaming splinter of a building, just as it had the first time Harry cast it. He should have expected that Malfoy would find someplace suitably toff, but this place was something else entirely. 

The doors slid open and as soon as he stepped through, Harry was hit by a blast of cool, dry air - a welcome contrast to the ruddy humidity outside. His boots squeaked against the marble floors and echoed through the cavernous lobby as he approached a prim woman with cat-eye glasses and a severe suit sitting at the front desk. She was plucking away at a keyboard, which struck Harry as odd because if the clock on the wall, the bubble of cooling charms, and the line of austere eagle owls were any indication, the building was magical. 

The woman didn’t look up when Harry approached the desk, just held up one manicured finger to silence him, and kept typing. 

Harry waited. He tapped his foot. He drummed his fingers on the desk. He whistled the chorus of a Weird Sisters song he’d been listening to on the wireless. Her brows pinched together, but she remained focused. 

With a sigh, Harry pulled out his Auror badge and dangled it in front of her computer screen. The woman stopped typing and finally looked up. 

“I’m here to see Draco Malfoy.” 

Her fingers flexed over the keyboard. “Penthouse. Top floor.” 

She pointed her wand at a complicated-looking switchboard and gestured toward the lift bay, where a set of doors opened with a ding. 

The lift shot Harry straight up and up and up, and when he was certain he’d burst through the roof and be ejected into the London sky, it stopped, and the doors slid open. 

Harry hesitated in the entryway, letting out a low whistle. 

The place was unreal. He could see clear across the London skyline through the massive windows. The furniture was all gleaming, pale wood and caramel-coloured leather, and appeared to have never been used. It looked like a page out of a design magazine, one with a title like, “Bachelor pads of the young, rich, and stereotypically masculine.” It wasn’t a style Harry enjoyed, but even he could admit it was impressive, objectively speaking. 

“Potter,” came a rough voice to Harry’s right. 

Malfoy was shirtless in a pair of shiny black pyjama bottoms with a silk dressing gown hanging loosely over his slim shoulders. His hair was artfully mussed, and he twirled a cigarette between long fingers. He looked like some sort of debauched prince, just rolled out of bed and Harry quickly averted his eyes before he was caught gawping. 

“Nice place,” Harry said dumbly because he didn’t know what else to say. 

Malfoy snorted and beckoned Harry with a jerk of his head, sending a lock of pale blond hair cascading over one eye. 

“It’s Blaise’s,” Malfoy threw over his shoulder as Harry trailed after him onto a huge terrace that wrapped around the edge of the building. 

There was an azure swimming pool sparkling in the summer sun with a couple of lounge chairs stretched beside it. It smelled of hot concrete, chlorine, and the vining jasmine that crawled from white ceramic pots and climbed up the face of the building. 

“Fucking hell,” Harry exhaled, bowing over the edge of the railing. He could see for miles! Through the haze of heat, the windows of surrounding buildings winked and shone. He could see the Thames, dotted with sailboats, meandering through the city. This high up, he couldn’t see a single person – just cars and buildings and miles of blue sky. 

Malfoy leaned against the railing next to Harry, a touch too close, with his back to the skyline. He cupped a hand around the end of his cigarette and lit it with his wand. 

“I know, right?” he murmured around his cigarette, his face momentarily obscured by smoke. 

“I mean, I heard Zabini was doing well but... _fucking hell!”_ Harry said again. “You two are still friends, then?” 

Malfoy inclined his head. “Something like that.” 

“He here?” 

“No. Left a few days ago. Had a work thing with some Saudi prince in Dubai.” 

“What the hell does he do?” 

“Hell if I know, Potter. _Things_.” He gestured grandly. “With real estate. And loads of money. Probably illegal. Shall I give him your number and let him know you’re keen? You’re not quite his type, but he might make an exception for Harry Potter.” 

Harry rolled his eyes. Even the incredible view couldn’t make Malfoy any more palatable. “I’m good, thanks. Let’s get this over with. Wand.” 

“All business, eh Potter? Suit yourself.” Malfoy extracted his wand and dropped it into Harry’s outstretched hand. 

Harry cast the extended Priori Incantatem. The spells that spilled from Malfoy’s wand were innocuous enough at first – a few transfigurations, levitation charms, some sort of tailoring charm. But then things took a turn. Lubrication charms, muscle relaxers, a vibration spell, a spattering of very specific cleaning charms, and oh. Oh god, no. Harry didn’t even know there were spells for _that._

Harry felt his face flush red and when he chanced a look at Malfoy, the slimy git was grinning at him, smoke curling from his nostrils. 

“Well,” Harry said, clearing his throat. “Nothing _illegal_ per se. Not in this country, at least.” He handed the wand back to Malfoy and wiped his damp palms on his robes. 

Malfoy laughed, but it wasn’t the usual cruel sort of laugh. It was deep and warm, and it made something in Harry’s stomach go all liquid and melty. Harry didn’t quite know what to make of that. 

“Tea?” Malfoy asked. 

“Er, no. I have to get back to work.” 

“I thought this was work.” 

Harry rolled his eyes. “Real work. Believe it or not, I do have better things to do than sift through your wanking spells.” 

Malfoy put out his cigarette in a potted plant. “Oh, come on, Potter. Sit with me. I’m bored out of my mind. It’s obviously grown quite severe if I’m soliciting your company.” 

“Charming.” 

“I have single malt, if you prefer,” Malfoy offered. 

“It’s noon.” 

“You’re no fun,” Malfoy said with a pout. 

“So I’ve heard,” Harry grumbled. 

Malfoy, the absolute bastard, batted his pale eyelashes at Harry. 

“Shall I say please?” he said, his voice pitched low. 

“No! Just – fine, I’ll have tea. Whatever,” Harry conceded, though he wasn’t sure why. 

Malfoy’s responding grin was smug as he sauntered back into the flat. Harry followed him across the vast, sparsely furnished sitting and dining area, into an open kitchen, where he brandished his wand at a kettle and pulled two Japanese-style teacups from a cupboard. 

Harry studied the onyx countertops, the single white orchid on the glass-topped dining table, the hardware on the cupboards, eager to look anywhere but at Malfoy with his bare chest and slippery smile. 

“So, Potter. Tell me, do you enjoy being a copper?” 

“I’m not a cop,” Harry muttered. With Malfoy’s rap sheet, he supposed it wasn’t particularly shocking he knew about Muggle police. 

“An Auror, same difference.” 

“Bit different.” 

“It’s a surprising career choice for someone with your aversion to _rules_ , don’t you think?” 

Harry kept his mouth shut. He didn’t want to explain himself to Malfoy. And he definitely didn’t want to admit that yes, it had been a bit of a problem as of late. 

“All right fine, sit there and brood. I suppose you always were a bit of a brute. I guess I shouldn’t be all that surprised that you spend your days shoving around teenagers and minor offenders.” 

Harry knew he was being bated and resisted the urge to rise to it. “What difference does it make to you?” 

“I'm curious. Come on, Potter. Humor me.” 

“I like my job just fine, if you must know.” 

“Really.” Malfoy leaned over the counter, pushing into Harry’s space. “You go from fighting dark wizards and saving the world to policing petty theft and that _satisfies_ you?” 

“What _satisfies_ me is none of your business.” 

Harry regretted the words as soon they were out of his mouth, particularly when Malfoy’s smile grew teeth and his storm-gray eyes darkened visibly. 

“I could make it my business,” he said, his words curling around Harry like a serpent. 

Harry looked directly into Malfoy’s cool stare and answered flatly, “No, you really couldn’t.” 

Despite the conviction of his words, Harry was unsettled. What was Malfoy playing at, flirting with him like that? For half a second, Harry worried he had revealed himself, that maybe his eyes had lingered too long on the pale planes of Malfoy’s chest or the cruel curl of his lips. 

But no, that couldn’t be it. Malfoy was bored and looking to rile Harry up just for something to do. He probably thought that his lasciviousness would make Harry uncomfortable – which it did, but not for the reasons Malfoy was expecting. 

“Pity,” Malfoy said, his eyes raking up Harry’s body one final time before he busied himself with the squealing teapot. 

Harry sipped his tea while Malfoy blathered on about the merits of Oolong versus English Breakfast (complex versus plebeian – Harry preferred English Breakfast, thank you very much). He suffered through a bit of whinging about what a dick Robards was (with which Harry agreed, but kept that to himself), and how much he missed having a proper English tailor while he was abroad. All the while, Harry said very little. He was oddly fascinated by Malfoy’s sudden desire to make small talk. He didn’t even seem to expect Harry’s participation. He just went on about whatever popped into his mind. 

A half-hour later, Harry’s tea was empty. He hastily made an excuse – something about paperwork for a case involving a botched batch of illegal Polyjuice that resulted in a dozen Queen Elizabeths running amok in Trafalgar Square – and got in the lift. 

As the doors slid shut, Harry got a final glance of Malfoy, still in his pyjamas and dressing gown, leaning against the partition wall to the kitchen, watching Harry with a strange, dark look that made Harry’s stomach flip. Or maybe that was just the feeling he got when the lift dropped into space. Either way, it left him unsettled and a little high. 

  
  



	5. In which Draco Malfoy finds a distraction that is dark, brooding, and named Jason. Or was it Jerry?

As soon as the lift doors closed behind Potter, Draco dumped his half-drunk tea in the sink and filled the cup with scotch.

Fucking Potter. How dare he look so bloody fantastic with his uniform and his lovely, scowling face. It just wasn’t _fair_. It was interfering with Draco’s ability to hate him and if that wasn’t just the most inconvenient twist of events, he didn’t know what was. He was meant to be making Potter as miserable as he was, but instead, all he wanted to do was maybe lick Potter’s neck or put his hand in Potter’s trousers.

Perhaps he was being too hard on himself. Draco was bored, Potter was fit, it was nothing to get worked up about, really. And Draco had a long, Potter-free week stretching ahead of him, he ought to be celebrating.

Draco worked his way through two more glasses of scotch, unbothered that it was barely half two. He sifted through Blaise’s record collection and played Placebo’s "Pure Morning" six times in a row at a brain-numbing volume, hoping the neighbours would make a complaint. He did some half-drunk yoga on the patio in his pants, simply because he could. He ate a slice of bread straight from the bag because he was too lazy to cook or order in.

He was flipping through a three-month-old copy of _Witch Weekly_ with his feet in the pool when he found himself confronted by a rumpled Harry Potter positively _smouldering_ out at him from the glossy page.

“Circe’s tits,” Draco cursed, holding the magazine at arm's length to get some perspective.

It was some silly fluff piece about England’s thirty most eligible wizards under thirty. There were words like _philanthropist_ , and _hero_ , and _fiercely private_ , and Draco didn’t waste his time reading it. But the pictures, dear sweet Merlin!

Who knew Potter could look so edible in tight trousers and a well-tailored shirt, unbuttoned nearly to the waist with a tie hanging loose around his collar. If that was what Potter was hiding under all that scarlet, Draco had half a mind to send a complaint. He didn’t know to whom, exactly – the uniform designing department, the Minister of Magic, Potter himself – because honestly, it was a disservice to mankind. He was certain that a lot fewer criminals would skip their parole meetings if Potter walked around looking like _that._

Draco tossed the magazine aside and tipped himself into the pool, holding himself beneath the water until his lungs burned.

He had to get a grip.

There was no way he was going to suffer the humiliation of wanking over Harry bloody Potter, no matter what his traitorous dick thought about the matter.

****

Draco spent the evening wanking over Harry bloody Potter.

He scoured every old magazine he could find for fodder and was not disappointed. Potter somehow found time to participate in numerous photoshoots for this rag or that, always going on about his organizations, and war orphans, and bloody house elf rights, for fuck sake.

Most of the photos were mild – just Potter looking sharp and a touch uncomfortable in designer clothes he so clearly didn’t choose for himself. There was something charming about the way he averted his eyes from the camera, the way his smile was always crooked and self-deprecating. Draco supposed that was one of the reasons Potter had so many lovestruck and devoted fans – not only was he pleasant to look at, but there was a certain authenticity one didn’t often see in celebrities.

Draco had a bit of a weakness for the sort of casual confidence that Potter appeared to have mastered in the years since school. What Draco might have once written off as arrogance suddenly had an entirely new appeal.

He wondered, would Potter be controlling in bed? Rough? Authoritative? Just the thought of it caused a shiver to run down Draco’s spine and an ache to bloom low in his gut. It also resulted in his imagining of Potter in all sorts of compromising situations, ranging from the indulgent (Potter fucking him over the balcony in the starlight) to the downright outlandish (on top of Robards’ desk while he was forced to fill out Draco’s release paperwork).

The next morning, Draco woke sticky and hungover in Blaise’s too-large bed, surrounded by magazine spreads of Harry Potter, and Draco had half a mind to be embarrassed about it. He felt like a teenage girl with a crush – just one step short of pasting Potter’s photos all over his bedroom walls.

Draco hauled himself off to soak in Blaise’s shower – a glass box with a showerhead so wide it felt like being doused in a steamy jungle rain. It should have been therapeutic, if not for his treasonous brain imagining how nice it would be to press a wet Potter against the glass wall and suck him off until he shouted Draco’s name. God, the acoustics in Blaise’s bathroom would be perfect for amplifying those delicious sounds Draco was sure he’d make.

Moments later, after Draco spilled himself down the drain and sunk bonelessly to the tiled floor, he thought maybe he ought to go out and get laid before he did something stupid, like show up at Potter’s office with a pack of rubbers and an erection. Somehow, he didn’t think that would go over well with Potter – or Robards, for that matter, though scandalizing the two of them held a certain appeal.

Draco dressed carefully that evening, selecting his best trousers and a silky green shirt that Blaise said made him look slutty (which Draco took as a compliment). He tousled his pale hair and doused himself in some of Blaise’s expensive cologne, winking at himself in the mirror before setting off in search of worthwhile distraction.

He didn’t know many clubs or gay bars in London, but he’d gone to a place called Crush with Blaise before he’d left and it had just the atmosphere Draco was looking for – dark, expensive, and Muggle. He apparated into an alleyway outside the club, startling a cat perched on one of the bins so badly it toppled off with a screech.

Draco was let into the club without questions. The bouncer had given him the once-over and stepped aside with a bored nod of his head. Once inside, Draco found a table in the corner with a wide view of the room. He ordered a martini – dirty, three olives – and sat back to wait.

A man with biceps like battering rams and an unfortunate crew cut was the first to approach. Draco sent him lumbering away with a haughty sneer and a rudely dismissive wave of his hand. There was no time for pleasantries; Draco was looking for something specific. Though he wasn’t exactly sure what that was, he was confident that he would know it when he saw it.

It certainly wasn’t the lanky lad with the pretty face and golden curls, nor was it the handsome older man with the salt and pepper beard. He dismissed them with the same casual arrogance.

As the evening wore on, Draco nearly considered adjusting his standards.

Until he saw _him_. Slim with broad shoulders, muscled forearms, dark hair, dark skin, darker scowl. _Perfect_.

Draco touched the wand concealed in his sleeve and muttered a charm to draw the man’s attention. It wasn’t anything drastic, just a handy little thing he’d learned from a burlesque dancer in Rio. When the man turned, Draco gave him his filthiest grin and watched as he weaved determinedly through the crowd toward Draco, like a fish pulled helplessly on a line.

“I noticed your drink was empty, can I buy you another?” the man asked, standing before Draco, one hand casually tucked in the pocket of his jeans.

“You noticed that from all the way over there, did you?” Draco crooned sweetly.

“I noticed you from all the way over there. The drink is just an excuse.”

Draco chuckled. “Then I’d love one.”

“Jeremy,” he said, pointing to himself.

“Thirsty,” Draco said in response.

****

By the fourth drink, Jason (or was it Joshua? Shit, he’d already forgotten) was happily licking Draco’s neck. It felt rather nice, but Draco could only tolerate the man slobbering all over him for so long, so he told Justin to get them a cab.

Bringing a Muggle back to Blaise’s flat was probably not the brightest idea Draco ever had, but Whatshisname was so boggled by Blaise’s penthouse that he didn’t even notice the odd touches of magic all around them. Muggles were blissfully unaware like that, bless them.

“This place –” Jerry said, aghast. “You live here?”

“It belongs to a friend. I live abroad,” Draco explained succinctly.

“Oh yeah? Where?”

“Here and there.”

Draco had no desire to engage in useless tête-à-tête, so he grabbed Jackson by the belt buckle and yanked him toward the bedroom.

“So, what are you doing in London?” he asked as Draco undid his belt and yanked it from the loops with a snap. “You must be from here, what with that public-school accent and all.”

“Wiltshire, but yes. I’m here on business.” Draco tugged at his trousers.

“What kind of business are you in?”

Draco threw up his hands. “Just…business! Do you want to fuck, or swap hopes and dreams? Because I’m far more interested in getting your cock up my arse than tittering like girls at a slumber party!”

“Jeeze, touchy,” Jonas said with a roll of his eyes, which were a lovely shade of moss green. “Fine, you want it like that? I can do it like that.”

With no further preamble, Jacob kicked off his trousers, stripped off his t-shirt, grabbed Draco by the back of the neck, and shoved him face-down on the bed.

That was more like it!

He efficiently divested Draco of his clothing and Draco didn’t even have the time to complain that he’d thrown a three-hundred-pound shirt on the floor before Jerry was pushing two thick, oiled fingers into his arse.

The man fucked like a steam engine and Draco was reduced to a whimpering mess with embarrassing speed. He didn’t even mind when Joseph (no, that still didn't sound right) flipped him onto his back, threw Draco’s ankles over his shoulders, and proceeded to pound directly into his prostate with unerring accuracy.

The bloke really was good looking – strong jaw, well-muscled, deep eyes – pity about all the talking. At least he knew well enough to shut up while they were fucking.

When they finished and Joaquin (oh, now that definitely wasn’t right) lay huffing next to him on Blaise’s gaudy silk sheets, coated in a fine sheen of sweat, Draco gave into the strange urge to run a hand through the man’s hair. It was thick but gummed up with too much product and Draco frowned; he’d imagined it would be much softer.

“So,” Jeffrey started.

Circe’s tits, it was already back to the talking.

“Does this _friend_ of yours mind you bringing blokes back to his place?”

Draco could hear the quotations around ‘friend.’ He really didn’t want to dignify Jerry’s pathetic attempt at fishing with an answer, but Draco always did have the bad habit of being a bit too candid when properly fucked.

“No. Why would he care? So long as I change the sheets and you don’t steal anything. Although, I doubt he’d even notice. It isn’t like he furnished the place. The decorator just says put the vase here, throw the rug there, how about a nice peace lily, now here’s the bill for twenty grand. Are you planning on stealing anything?”

“No,” Joe chuckled. “So, it really is just a friend then?”

“Why the hell do you care?” Draco asked, inspecting his nails, which were pristine, as usual.

Jeffrey shrugged. “Thought maybe I could see you again.”

“God, why?” Draco scoffed, because _honestly_. It seemed the more unpleasant he acted, the more they wanted to hang around, the pathetic sods.

“You’re quite fit,” he said. “And I think you might be clever. I think you’re single. You are single, right?”

“Eternally.”

“Then, yeah. I think we could have a good time.”

“We just _had_ a good time. And I’m leaving in a couple of months.”

“How come? Business over?”

It was just getting tedious. It was probably best to cut the poor bastard loose before he asked to stay the night or something embarrassing.

“No. My parole ends.”

Justin was dumbfounded into momentarily silence, fortunately. But he soon regained his footing.

“You’re on parole?”

“Oh, don’t look so betrayed, Jason.”

“Jeremy.”

Right. “Whatever. Just a minor thing, a personal prejudice. You see, my arresting officer is a massive git.”

“I see.” Jerry was frowning now.

“And I’m quite sure he thinks _I’m_ a massive git. Which – okay – isn’t unfounded, but we haven’t even _seen_ each other in six– no, seven years? We went to school together, you see. I haven’t even thought about him, I’ve been so incredibly busy making money, traveling, fucking fitter blokes, just living my life, you know?”

“Uh-huh.”

“He arrested me over practically nothing. And now, he must show up every week and check on me to make sure I’m behaving myself like I’m some sort of naughty child that they’ve put in the corner just to shame. And here he comes, just walks right in, in his uniform with that sex hair and that stupid face. The jawline on him, _honestly_. The nerve of it all.”

Jose scratched his head. “Wait, you like his stupid hair and face or you hate it? I’m confused.”

“I hate them! They’re attached to him, and I hate _him_. Do keep up, Jonathan. I find it absolutely loathsome that he be so bloody attractive. Massive gits like him should have boils and patchy beards and flabby arses. But instead, he’s the embodiment of tall, dark, and brooding and I think it’s driving me mad.”

Joey pushed up on one elbow and frowned down at Draco.

“Looks a bit like you, actually,” Draco mused with a frown, because, well, he did. Fancy that.

“O-kay,” Jesse said, his eyebrows practically at his hairline. He pushed himself up until he was sitting with his legs over the edge of the bed, fumbling around for his discarded pants.

“Oh, are you leaving?” Draco said innocently, even though he was quite glad to get rid of Jeff.

Draco watched him collect his things, admiring the curve of his arse when he bent over.

“Yeah, I’m leaving. Good luck fucking that bloke you hate, since you’re clearly obsessed.”

“I’m not obsessed with him! It’s not like I want him coming round and harassing me and judging me, like he’s so fucking perfect,” Draco snapped. “Jacob, I don’t think you have any idea what you’re talking about.”

“It’s _Jeremy_.”

“No, it isn’t! I’m certain that’s not what you told me the first time.”

“Whatever. I’ll see myself out.”

“Quite right,” Draco said, dropping back down onto the pillow with a sigh, then popping up again. He called out, “I also really hate that horse statue on the front table if you’re still thinking of stealing something!” 

There was no response from ‘Jeremy.’

Draco slept.

****

When Draco woke, he was in a foul mood. It was partly because it was the third consecutive day he’d woken with a hangover, which, even with a stash of hangover potion handy, was still unpleasant.

The other part was that, despite rather brilliant sex, ‘Jeremy’ accused Draco of being obsessed with Potter and it bothered him.

No one seemed to understand Draco’s hate for the speccy git and it was terribly frustrating. First, it was his friends in school, who teased him mercilessly for the way Draco tracked Potter through the castle. He was only being cautious, what with Potter always getting into some sort of trouble while simultaneously accusing Draco of everything, left and right.

So, he thought Potter was attractive. Big deal! If all the magazine articles and photoshoots were any indication, so did _everyone else_. It didn’t mean Draco didn’t hate him. Potter’s attractiveness was an inconvenience, yes. And maybe he found the way Potter carried himself mildly appealing. And all right, perhaps Draco did entertain the _occasional_ fantasy about Potter. If he weren’t so bloody bored, it wouldn’t even be an issue.

He needed a task. A distraction. Something. Anything! Because clearly, fucking some nameless Muggle hadn’t quite done the trick as well as he’d hoped.

Draco smoked a cigarette in the bath, washing the sweat and sex from his skin. Blaise would kill him for smoking in the house and that pleased Draco immensely. He deserved to have his wallpaper damaged for leaving Draco here alone with only Potter and chatty Muggles to keep him company.

As he sat in the tub, watching the steam and cigarette smoke curl around him, he thought maybe he ought to try and fuck Potter after all. Gods, it would be the conquest of a lifetime, if he could manage it.

Potter wasn’t gay, as far as Draco knew, but he didn’t think he imagined the way Potter’s eyes slid over his bare chest, the way he blushed and averted his gaze when Draco flirted with him. That meant there was a chance he could be persuaded. And Draco could be very persuasive when he wanted to be.

Potter would take coaxing. Draco would have to tread lightly, never push Potter too hard or too fast. He would have to be patient, which was never a trait he’d possessed, but Draco found himself with plenty of time on his hands. Beyond that, he would have to convince Potter to overlook the literal decades of animosity between them, at least long enough to give into his baser urges.

Potter would probably have some spectacular gay crisis and watching him suffer held its own appeal for Draco. Confronting one’s sexuality wasn’t normally something Draco would be so cavalier about, being that his own had come with no small amount of doubt, pain, and self-loathing. But this was _Potter_ , and Draco desperately wanted to take him down a peg. He’d never avoided being cruel to Potter before, and he didn’t think he ought to start now.

It would be a marvelously fun game, seducing Harry Potter. Draco was just itching for a challenge and Potter had always been his favourite opponent. And when it was all over, Draco would be able to return to his life with a lovely bit of wanking material, an excellent story to hold over his friends from school, and the satisfaction of knowing he’d bested Potter at a game he didn’t even know he was playing. Because if there was one thing Draco loved more than playing, it was _winning._

  
  
  



	6. In which Harry deserves more than dreary mansions, half the pud, and Cornwall, even if he is probably balding.

The next time Potter came, Draco was ready for him. He wore in his favourite suit – the linen one that showed off the sharp cut of his shoulders and made his legs look a million miles long. He brushed his teeth until he was gagging on mint and then spent at least thirty minutes on his hair until everything was arranged just so. 

His plan was simple: look impeccable so that Potter would find him devastatingly attractive while being charming and hilarious and perfectly attentive. If he could get Potter talking, figure out what made him tick, then Draco could figure out exactly how to take him apart. 

They were scheduled to meet at noon again, and at ten til, Draco fortified himself with a cigarette on the patio. 

But Potter was late. 

Draco was lighting his third cigarette when Potter finally came shuffling out of the lift at half-past looking grumpy, rumpled, and delectable. He stopped in front of Draco with his arms crossed over his chest. 

“Merlin, Potter, you look like you could use a drink.” 

Instead, Potter snatched the cigarette from Draco’s hand and took a long drag, the smoke escaping his flared nostrils like an angry dragon. 

“Bad day at work, darling?” 

Potter rolled his eyes and carefully placed the cigarette back between Draco’s fingers, as Draco watched, captivated. 

“You could say that,” he said. 

“Oh, poor Potter,” Draco clucked. “Didn’t get nominated for Most Eligible Under Thirty in _Witch Weekly_ this year?” 

Potter fixed him with a glare. “No, I was.” 

Draco chuckled because he knew that, obviously. “Then why do you look like someone pissed in your pudding.” 

“Not talking to you about it.” 

“Who else are you going to talk to about it?” 

“Friends, coworkers, strangers, anyone really. Anyone who isn’t you.” He was practically growling. 

“Oh, come on. What’s the worst that could happen?” 

“I punch you in the face and get sacked.” 

Draco smirked. “So violent, Potter. You should consider anger management.” 

Potter sunk down onto the nearest lounge chair, his knees spread wide. He held out one hand. “Just give me the wand, will you?” 

Draco placed his wand in Potter’s hand and he cast the spell. 

Potter blushed but looked far less surprised this time around. Draco may have added a few of those last spells that morning in hopes of seeing Potter lose his balance, but to his great disappointment, Potter appeared only mildly affected. 

“No surprises there, I suppose,” he said and handed Draco back his wand. 

Potter put his hands on his knees and for a horrible second, Draco thought he might get up and leave. 

“Want to go swimming?” Draco blurted, cringing internally at his desperate blunder. 

Potter looked at him like he’d just announced that he was half garden gnome. 

“What?” 

“Swimming,” Draco said, affecting an air of arrogance to cover his tracks. “You know. Where you get in the water. Paddle around. I’m sure you’ve heard of it. Do you want to?” 

Potter plucked at his heavy uniform. He must have been roasting. 

“No. Definitely not.” 

“Fine. I could make tea again.” 

Potter’s eyes narrowed to suspicious slits. “What are you playing at, Malfoy?” 

“What do you mean?” Draco tried for nonchalance, but it didn’t quite land. 

“I mean, what are you trying to pull? Are you hoping to drown me? Poison my tea?” 

Draco laughed genuinely. “Gods, Potter. The version of me in your little brain is positively diabolical. Alas, no. Blaise has left me behind. I have no one to talk to but you. So, I’m trying to make the best of it.” 

It was true, after all. 

“Don’t you have any friends around here that you can bother?” 

Draco arched a brow at Potter. “Like whom? Nearly all my friends from school have all moved away. And anyway, it isn’t like I ever expected to come back to this godforsaken country.” 

“Hm.” Potter looked sceptical. 

“So, talk to me. Tell me what the great Harry Potter is up to these days. I mean, clearly, you are a workaholic.” He glanced over at Potter’s left hand. “Unmarried. What do you do besides work?” 

“All sorts of things.” 

“Tell me about them.” It was like trying to coax conversation from a rock, but Draco’s persistence would pay off, he was sure of it. 

Potter sighed, resigned. “I run a few charities, teach dueling lessons to kids, spend time with my friends. I like to garden. Cook.” 

Typical Potter. Kids, cooking, and gardening? What a joke. 

“How domestic. So, you have a house, I take it?” Draco asked. 

Potter nodded, frowning. 

“But you hate it,” Draco guessed based on the odd twisty thing Potter was doing with his face. 

“I don’t hate it.” 

“You do. I can tell. You ought to be rolling in galleons, Potter. Why don’t you just buy a new one? Or a couple of new ones. I hear Greece is nice this time of year. Or perhaps Costa Rica?” 

“It was given to me by someone I cared about.” 

“An ex?” Draco asked, hoping he didn’t sound too eager. 

Potter shook his head. “My godfather.” 

“Your godfather –” realization dawned on Draco. “Potter, you aren’t still living in that dreary old Black mansion, are you?” 

Potter’s frown deepened. 

“God, you are, aren’t you? Christ, Potter. When Mother told me you’d been saddled with it, I didn’t actually think you’d stick around. Just sell it already. Better yet, burn it down. That place is horrid.” 

“Yeah. It kind of is.” Potter agreed with a sigh. 

Draco snorted. He got up and went inside, grabbing a stack of papers from the kitchen counter. Potter remained outside, and when Draco returned to the terrace, he’d stretched his legs out on the lounge, one knee bent, and his face tilted up toward the sun. 

Draco dropped into a chair next to Potter and spread a couple of the papers out across the footrest. 

“What are you doing?” 

“It’s the real estate listings, Potter. We’re going to find you a new house.” 

“No.” 

“Potter,” Draco whined. “I’m bored. I need something to do. And I’m good at this!” 

Potter just shut his eyes and went back to baking in the sun. 

“Here, look at this one. A very nice flat. Corner unit, lots of windows, a view of the park. You seem like someone who likes parks, Potter. Wizarding district in Knightsbridge.” 

He shook his head without opening his eyes. “No flats. I want a house.” 

“People in London don’t live in houses, Potter, they live in flats.” 

“Then maybe I don’t want to live in London.” 

“What about one of those cozy row houses in Kensington. Cost an arm and leg but you could probably afford it, being Harry Potter and all.” 

Potter shrugged. “What does it matter whether I like my house or not? I’m hardly there anyway.” 

“I don’t know. A place to hang your hat and all that rot.” 

“Do _you_ have a house?” 

“Don’t change the subject. We’re talking about you and your pathetic life.” 

“No, come on, Malfoy. You’re asking me all these questions, now you answer one.” 

“Do I have a house?” 

“Yeah.” 

Draco stretched out on the lounge, crossed his ankles, and tipped his sunglasses from his forehead down over his eyes. 

“I have flats,” Draco said. “Here and there. The places I stay most.” 

Potter was looking at him. He could feel it, but he didn’t turn, didn’t make eye contact. 

“My favorite is the one in Nice, in the Côte d'Azur. That’s the French Riviera, if you didn’t know. It looks right out over the Mediterranean, which is just about the bluest water you’ve ever seen. It's tucked into a hillside and has a gorgeous terrace with roses and the inside is so lovely. All cream-coloured with parquet floors. It isn’t large or anything, nothing like I was used to growing up, but it’s charming and peaceful and everything smells of sea salt and fresh air.” Draco sighed, his heart heavy with longing. 

He did love that flat, even though it wasn’t technically _his._ It was his mother’s and he adored it. Without Lucius darkening their doorways, Narcissa had found a certain peace. She’d moved to Nice as soon as the trials ended, buying her sweet little flat with the view and filling it with fresh flowers and a white linen sofa. She smiled more freely now, laughed openly in a way Draco hadn’t heard since his childhood. When he went to visit her, they would drink Pinot Gris on the terrace and talk for hours. They’d eat fresh fruit with their fingers, watching the boats circling the bay and the tourists exploring the cafes and shops on the promenade. 

He never spent long with her in Nice. Sooner rather than later, he’d feel that itch to move, to run, to grab a portkey and escape to some dark corner, some seedy underground, some sticky bar. He liked who he was when he was there with her, in her light-filled flat that smelled of white lilies, but it felt like a lie. It felt like more than he deserved. 

He didn’t tell Potter any of that, of course. He didn’t tell Potter that the dreamy flat he described didn’t belong to him, neither did any of the other flats he’d referenced – which were truly nothing more than dingy hotel rooms that he would rent by the week on occasion. He didn’t think Potter would find that particularly impressive. 

“That sounds nice,” Potter said. 

“It is,” Draco agreed. 

Potter agreed to tea again and they drank it by the pool, even though Draco thought it was far too hot to drink tea outside, or at all really. But Potter seemed to like the heat and Draco was inclined to indulge him as it made him pliant and sleepy and far less likely to notice that Draco was staring at him again. He even unbuttoned his Auror robes to reveal a white t-shirt and dark jeans, rolled once at the ankles over his boots. 

“So, going to tell me what got you so huffy this afternoon?” Draco asked as casually as he could manage. 

Potter gave him a long, appraising look, clearly weighing whether or not he wanted to answer Draco’s question. 

“Ginny’s getting married,” he said finally. 

That wasn’t at all what Draco expected to hear. He sat up and removed his sunglasses to look at Potter. He looked relaxed but there was a tightness around his mouth that betrayed him. 

“August,” Potter continued. “Big to-do at the burrow.” 

“And this is…upsetting?” 

“She was my girlfriend once.” 

“And you’re still pining?” Draco’s heart sunk infinitesimally. 

Harry snorted. “No.” 

Draco quickly disguised his relief. Competing with the Weasley girl would have made his plans to have Potter far more difficult. Potter always did seem to keep her on a pedestal. There had been rumours in the Prophet years ago that Potter and Ginevra Weasley would be married, therefore solidifying Potter’s perfect future with his important job and ideal wife. The media backlash that occurred in the wake of their breakup was rather spectacular, in Draco’s opinion. They’d absolutely dragged the Weaslette through the mud, even going so far as to accuse her of being unfaithful, which seemed unlikely in Draco’s opinion. Who in their right mind would be unfaithful to Potter? It wasn't like they'd get away with it. 

The press hadn't linked Potter to anyone in years, though they’d tried desperately. They’d occasionally catch Potter cuddled up with some poor girl, but never more than once. Not that Draco had been checking or anything. 

“So, what then?” Draco asked. 

“She asked me to be her best man.” 

Draco winced. “Bit awkward, that.” 

Potter sighed, raking a hand through his hair and leaving it standing wildly on end. “Yeah, a little bit.” 

They were silent for a moment. 

“Molly is trying to set me up with everything that moves,” Potter admitted. 

“Eugh. And I bet she has dreadful taste.” 

“Hey, Molly is like a mum to me.” 

“That’s exactly the problem, Potter. Mums have the worst taste. They always think they know what you want but it’s really just what _they_ want _for_ you. She’ll pair you off with some carrot-topped niece twice removed named Nancy or Mary, who enjoys things like _badminton_ and _historical fiction."_

Potter huffed. “Oh yeah?” 

“Yes. She’ll like to vacation in Cornwall and always want to split the pudding at restaurants, even if you’d rather have the chocolate torte to yourself. She’ll insist on moving in with you far too early and will bring an army of embroidered pillows and mismatched antique teacup collections, that are only for show, never for drinking. You’ll never fuck, you’ll only _make love_ and she’ll look you in the eyes and say, ‘Darling, I love you,’ and eventually you will die in your sad little bed of boredom and monotony and it will be a relief because if she made you watch one more Agatha Christie mystery on the telly you’d have willing walked directly into the Thames with rocks in your pockets.” 

“Oddly specific,” Potter said, the corner of his lips twitching. “I don’t know. She sounds kind of nice.” 

“She sounds _boring_ , Potter. And the last things you need are _nice_ and _boring_.” 

“Is that so?” 

“I have it on good authority,” Draco said with a nod. 

“Whose?” 

“Mine! I mean look at you. Already old and dull. And you’re balding, did you know?” 

Potter ran a hand through his hair, mussing it again, only accenting how incredibly thick it was, that he definitely wasn’t balding, and it was very likely soft and fluffy, unlike that bastard Jeremy’s. Potter was grinning, but it was that same crooked one from the magazines and Draco wanted to lick it right off his face. 

“Now you’re just trying to hurt my feelings,” Potter said. 

“Did it work?” 

“Not really.” 

“Blast. Well, you know what they say; if at first you don’t succeed, try try again.” 

Potter got to his feet, his robes still hanging open. “It’ll have to wait until next week. I have to get back.” 

“I’ll be sure to think of something particularly cutting,” Draco said, returning to his lounging position behind dark sunglasses. 

“I have no doubt you will.” He turned to leave. 

“Oh, Potter,” Draco called after him. “What time do you usually finish your shift?” 

“Why?” Potter hesitated. 

“What time, Potter?” 

“Six,” he said warily. 

“Right. I should probably inform you that next Thursday I will be unavailable until five-thirty. Think we could meet then?” 

“Suspicious, Malfoy.” 

Draco just shrugged. 

“Fine. Whatever. Five thirty.” 

  
  
  



	7. In which Harry and Draco talk appliances, crown moulding, and dimmer switches with Nellie Witherbottom

Harry found himself checking the clock approximately every fifteen minutes on Thursday. It wasn’t that he was excited about seeing Malfoy, because he wasn’t. Malfoy was obnoxious and talked too much and was definitely up to something, but Blaise’s penthouse was flash as fuck and it was almost nice to have company that wasn’t constantly checking in on him, asking him how he was _feeling_ or if he was okay. 

Harry was fine. Everything was fine. 

Sure, he’d been bombarded by seating charts and flower arrangements and other fiddly wedding bits that he didn’t give a fuck about. It was all any of the Weasleys talked about and Harry found himself trying to avoid them. 

They probably thought he was moping over his broken heart or pining over Ginny (they always imagined things between them were more serious than they were), but they had it wrong. Harry was _happy_ for Ginny. She deserved love and a beautiful wedding, and all the things Harry could never give her. He loved Ginny, just not the way everyone wanted him to love her. The only person who actually understood that was Ginny herself. 

The real reason Harry was sick of hearing about the wedding was that it forced him to look around at his friends and his life and realize that he was suddenly all alone. Everyone was pairing off, starting lives beyond their Hogwarts friends, moving away and moving on. Except for Harry. 

Everything felt so stagnant. His stupid job that had once held all the promise of action and adventure and _purpose_ , was now little more than paper-pushing and policing minor infractions that Harry didn’t even think were that big of a deal in the first place. 

He wanted more. He wanted _different._ He wanted anything other than another day, another petty theft, another night alone with the wireless and no one for company but a portrait that called him a pervert and a blood traitor. 

Maybe he ought to get a kneazel. 

The hands on the clock finally reached five twenty. Harry straightened his robes, ran a hand through his hair (not that it made a lick of difference), and apparated to Blaise’s posh building. 

The same pointy witch sat at the desk. Harry didn’t think she’d even noticed him, but as he approached her desk, the lift dinged, and the doors opened. Harry gave her a salute and rode to the penthouse on the top floor. 

When he stepped out of the lift, Harry found Malfoy draped over a leather chair, long legs hanging over the armrest and a book in his lap. 

“Hey,” Harry said and cursed himself for sounding a bit breathless. 

“Tea’s in the kitchen,” Malfoy said without looking up from the page. 

Tea was indeed in the kitchen – one cup steaming inside a bubble of stasis charms. Something odd and uncomfortable fluttered in Harry’s chest, but he didn't dwell on it. He inhaled the steam from the cup. Bergamot. English Breakfast. 

He glanced back at Malfoy who seemed to have forgotten he was there. 

Harry went to the living room and settled into the sofa with his tea and busied himself with the view and the way the sun in the early evening cast golden light across the skyline. He found himself wondering what it looked like at night, with the city lights twinkling against a backdrop of blackened sky. 

Harry was still caught up in his thoughts, sipping his English Breakfast, when Malfoy abruptly snapped his book shut and stood. 

“It’s six o’clock,” he announced. “Kit off, Potter.” 

“What?!” Harry choked on his tea. “Don’t make me hex you, Malfoy.” 

“Oh, not like that,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Your virtue is safe, for now.” 

Harry set down his tea and crossed his arms over his chest, awaiting an explanation. 

“We’re going out. Someplace Muggle. They’ll think you’re in some kind of cult if you wear that.” Malfoy gestured to Harry’s Auror robes. 

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” Harry said defensively. 

“Don’t be difficult. Do you know what I had to do to get us an appointment on such short notice? And after business hours, no less.” 

“An appointment?” 

“To see a house,” Malfoy said plainly. 

“I don’t want to look at houses with you!” 

“What, do you have someone else who can negotiate a real estate deal with Muggles?” 

“Hermione could,” Harry argued. 

“Yes, yes, Granger can do everything. But does she have my style?” Malfoy said with a flourish of his hand. “You’d end up with the housing equivalent of a Weasley jumper.” 

“I like Weasley jumpers.” 

“Of course you do, Potter,” Malfoy said, maybe a little fondly. “But perhaps it’s time to try on something different?” 

Harry wavered. He was going to give in, there was no fighting it. Malfoy would likely annoy him into submission if he refused, and some part of him really did want to see what Malfoy could come up with. He’d probably take Harry to some ridiculous villa or try to sell him on a castle with a solarium and a moat, or whatever else posh gits liked. 

Harry sighed and undid the clasps on his cloak. Malfoy watched him shamelessly, his eyes lingering on Harry’s chest and arms as he yanked himself free of his uniform. Harry felt his face grow hot, but he didn’t back down. He tossed his scarlet robes over the back of the sofa and tried not to fidget and pluck at his t-shirt. Malfoy was still staring, lower lip clamped between his teeth. 

Harry cleared his throat noisily and Malfoy visibly shook himself, his eyes returning to Harry’s face. 

“Come on then, Potter. We mustn’t be late.” 

Harry trailed after Malfoy into the lift, where Malfoy was suspiciously silent. He followed him across the lobby and out onto the kerb, where Malfoy hailed a black cab with nothing more than the wiggle of his long, pale fingers. 

It was very odd watching Malfoy do Muggle things. It was a bit like watching a dog ride a bicycle or a small child play Mozart on the piano – which was perhaps a bit of an unkind comparison, but this was _Malfoy_ hailing a cab. 

Once in the cab, Malfoy subtly cast a privacy charm and Harry felt the bubble of magic envelop them in cottony silence. 

“I should probably warn you,” he said, which Harry thought did not bode well. “The real estate agent thinks we’re a couple.” 

Anger flashed through Harry, white-hot, but he kept his voice even. “And why would they think that?” 

“Because that’s what I told her,” Malfoy said like it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

Harry reached for his wand to dispel the charm. He was going to get out of that cab right fucking now. There was no way he was going to play boyfriends with Malfoy, who would take the piss out of Harry at every opportunity he got. Harry wasn’t even comfortable letting his friends know he fancied blokes as well as girls, he definitely didn’t want to act it out in front of some stranger just so Malfoy could have a laugh at his expense. 

Harry froze when Malfoy wrapped a hand around Harry’s wrist, stilling his arm before he could get to his wand. 

“It was a hell of a lot easier to explain than I’m your parolee and you’re my keeper,” he said as if pained by the obviousness of it. “Oh, and by the way, magic exists, we’re both wizards, and this one is extraordinarily famous. Surprise!” 

Harry yanked his arm away from Malfoy’s grip. “Why are we looking at Muggle houses anyway?” 

Malfoy gave him a pained look that implied Harry had said something particularly idiotic. He gave Harry that look a lot, he realized. “Because you’re Harry Potter.” 

“Oh, you noticed?” 

Malfoy sighed. “A witch or wizard will try to sell you something ridiculous. They’ll think, oh, Harry Potter is horribly rich and famous, you know what he’d love? Some massive eyesore with a moat and a solarium.” 

Harry startled because that was an oddly astute observation. 

“But a Muggle has no preconceived notions about you. Or us. They’ll think we’re some lovely couple and find you something you like. Something with a big kitchen, room for friends, window boxes for posies, or whatever shite you fancy.” 

Harry just blinked. 

He always imagined having a big kitchen. Someplace where his friends could lean against counters, sit on stools and drink beer from bottles while Harry cooked. He’d even tried to build window boxes off the kitchen at Grimmauld Place so he could grow herbs, but they always shriveled and died within days. Harry suspected the house was sabotaging him. 

The cab came to a stop and Malfoy bounded out, practically prancing up the walk, leaving Harry to pay the driver. 

“Yoo hoo! Over here, boys!” A petite woman in her mid-fifties in a powder blue skirt suit tittered up to them on kitten heels. “Welcome, welcome! I’m Nellie Witherbottom, your real estate agent.” 

Malfoy stepped forward and took both her small hands in his much larger ones and gave a little bow. “Ms. Witherbottom. It is a pleasure to finally meet you. Harry and I are so glad for your help. You see, there is simply no other way to navigate this market without someone of your experience.” Malfoy’s smile was conspiratorial and charming. “I hear you sold the flat to Princess Di’s accountant last year.” 

Ms. Witherbottom fell all over herself blushing, batting Malfoy away with fluttering hands. 

“Oh, you charmer,” she said, painted coral lips twitching. She turned to Harry. “You must have your hands full with this one.” 

“You have no idea,” Harry deadpanned. 

Malfoy smiled indulgently at Harry, his arm snaking around Harry’s waist. Harry barely resisted the urge to slither out of his grip. Up close, Malfoy smelled warm and a little earthy, like oakmoss and musk, cut through with bright, sparkling citrus. It was expensive and heady and entirely intoxicating. 

“He indulges me,” Malfoy shammed, pinching Harry’s side in warning. 

“Aren't you precious,” Ms. Witherbottom crooned, then spun away on one heel toward a sweet little Nottingham townhouse. “This way boys! You’re going to love this place. All the original hardware has been restored. It gives the house a wonderful sense of history and character, but the appliances are all new, top of the line, of course, as you requested.” 

Harry frowned and wondered what other sorts of requests Malfoy had made on his behalf. 

She guided them through the front door and into the foyer and Draco finally dropped the arm from Harry’s waist to trail after her. 

“Hardwood floors, recently refinished. And would you look at that crown molding? To die for!” she carried on. 

Harry watched as Malfoy navigated the Muggle space with surprising ease. He commented on the inclusion of gas range rather than electric, complimented the choice of countertops, flicked the dimmer switches for the lights on the walls as if he’d done it a million times and Harry suddenly wondered if Malfoy had been living amongst Muggles all this time. 

“Draco told me you’re a gardener, Harry,” Ms. Witherbottom said to Harry, pulling his attention from puzzling over Malfoy. “This house has the loveliest little patch out back. Come look.” 

Malfoy smiled sweetly at Harry over his shoulder as Ms. Witherbottom guided Harry toward the back yard. 

**** 

Malfoy started chattering as soon as they left, walking side-by-side along the path, Malfoy with one hand in his trouser pocket, his pale eyes squinted against the setting sun. 

“It isn’t quite right, is it? Too cookie cutter. All a bit too…precious. Not quite you. I’ll schedule us something better next week.” 

“You want to do this again?” Harry asked. 

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “What else do I have to do?” 

They walked another block, passing a patio café. 

“Care for a drink?” Malfoy asked 

Harry hesitated. “Better not.” 

“Oh come on, you’re off duty. And this place is Muggle, no one will recognize us. No need to worry about some salacious article in the _Prophet_ in the morning.” 

Harry glared at him. 

“It’s just a drink, Potter.” 

“Fine.” 

Once inside, Harry ordered a lager and Malfoy had a glass of wine. He looked so posh sitting there in his suit trousers and crisp shirt, with the jacket slung over the back of his chair and one long leg crossed over his knee. Harry tried not to look at him for any period of time. It was like looking into the sun. Blinding, uncomfortable, but oddly entrancing. 

Malfoy talked with his hands. He gestured in wild, elegant arcs when describing things. He raked them through his pale hair frequently, twisted his paper napkin between his slim knuckles, spun the ring on his index finger, fluttered over the base of his wine glass, always moving. And when he wasn’t being a total prat, he was almost nice to listen to. He rambled on a lot and insulted Harry at every turn, but did it in that pleasantly deep voice and luxurious accent. Harry almost caught himself laughing at Malfoy’s jokes more than once. 

There was a brief lull in the conversation and Harry noticed Malfoy looking out at the park across the street. A mother was pushing a pram, cooing to a baby inside. 

“Where did you think you’d be by now?” He asked, his voice a little far away. 

Harry just looked at him, half wondering if Malfoy knew he was speaking aloud. But he must have because he turned to Harry, a soft but inquiring look on his face. 

“I don’t know. I guess I wasn’t sure I’d still be alive.” 

Malfoy’s face pinched. “Dark, Potter. You must have considered a scenario where you lived an entire life once or twice.” 

Harry just shrugged. He had, but he wasn’t willing to share his failed dreams with Draco Malfoy. 

“I thought I’d be married, of course,” Malfoy said. “To a pureblooded witch. Take over the manor. Go into politics. Have a couple brats - excuse me - _heirs._ ” 

“Sounds nice, I guess.” 

“Does it? I think it sounds dreadful.” 

“You don’t want to get married? Have a family?” 

Malfoy gave Harry the pitiable crup look again. “Would be a bit inauthentic, don’t you think?” 

Harry frowned. 

Malfoy sat back in his chair, a smirk curling the corner of his mouth. “You don’t know, do you? It must be nice being so charmingly oblivious. No wonder you’re such a shite Auror.” 

Harry ignored the jab. “Don’t know what?” 

“I’m _gay_ , Potter.” 

“Oh,” Harry said dumbly. 

He’d known that, on some level. He saw the way Malfoy’s gaze followed him. And there was nothing subtle about his flirtation. And yet, the idea had never really materialized that Malfoy was actually attracted to men, attracted to _Harry_ , until he said the words so plainly. Harry had grown so accustomed to the scrutiny of eyes on him that he’d stopped wondering why. 

Draco just snorted. “Father was terribly disappointed. And then came all the rest.” 

“The rest?” 

“That would be the drugs, the alcohol, the partying, the crime, the Muggles.” He winked and then leaned forward across the table on his elbows. “If you could do anything, be anyone, what would you do?” 

“This probably,” Harry said, but that wasn’t exactly true. Harry imagined more. He imagined love. Travel. Adventure. He imagined doing something besides grinding away at his job where he was nothing more than a figurehead. 

“You’re lying to me, Potter. But that’s okay. You don’t have to tell me. Not today, at least. I’ll get it out of you eventually.” 

Harry finished his beer in one gulp and Malfoy changed the subject. If Malfoy noticed that Harry never bothered to check his wand, he didn’t say anything, and neither did Harry. 

**** 

The next week they looked at two more houses. They weren’t quite right either, but definitely closer. Afterward, Malfoy convinced Harry to go to a pub and watch a football game. They ended up drinking too much lager and getting in a fight about a bad call. Malfoy was an Arsenal fan and Harry preferred Man U and they shouted back and forth about it, as if they were just two Muggle mates, enjoying an after-work drink. It was fun and normal and almost felt like real friendship. Except for the way that Malfoy stood too close, the way that his fluttering hands often found their way to Harry, his touches so light and fleeting they might not be there at all. Except for the way Malfoy hooked one polished shoe around the leg of Harry’s bar stool when they talked, or the way he ordered for him in pubs and always got it right. Except for the fact that Harry thought he might want to snog him senseless, but he mostly blamed the beer for that. 

Malfoy was attractive, and if he were anyone other than Draco fucking Malfoy, Harry might have considered it. But it didn't matter how fit he was, this was Malfoy and Malfoy always had an angle. Harry wouldn’t be fool enough to fall for it. 

Harry knew he shouldn’t be hanging around with the guy. He hadn’t spoken a word of it to Ron or Hermione. But Malfoy made Harry laugh. He teased him and never seemed to expect Harry to act any way. In turn, Harry had no compulsion to impress him or pretend to be anyone other than he was, which was broody, grumpy, and a little lonely these days. 

He was even starting to appreciate Malfoy’s help in finding a new house. Harry would never have taken the initiative himself, resigned to haunt Grimmauld Place forever, but he found himself enjoying the shopping process. Suddenly he was imagining himself in these spaces, cooking breakfast in a light-filled kitchen, wrestling a garden in the springtime, filling a living room with soft sofas and all his friends at Christmas. 

The problem was, he was also seeing Malfoy in these spaces. Playing domestic was clearly messing with Harry’s head. While he should have been envisioning himself doing these things alone, or with someone suitable, he was seeing Malfoy in that blasted dressing gown, reading to Harry from the paper, watching Harry in the yard with a twisted smirk over a cup of tea, tangled in one-thousand thread count sheets in the second-floor bedroom with the West facing windows. 

It was an issue of proximity, that was all. Harry just needed a little space and the feeling would certainly fade. 

**** 

On Saturday, Malfoy obliterated Harry’s hope for distance by ringing Harry on the floo, even though it was his day off. 

Harry was in the midst of a failed attempt at making pastry for a pie – the result being that he had flour in places he’d rather not mention. He’d been expecting a call from Ron about the fireworks he and George were planning for after Ginny’s ceremony, so he didn’t even bother with a cleaning charm when he answered the floo. It wouldn’t have been the first time Ron saw Harry at odds with an experiment in the kitchen. 

But it wasn’t Ron’s familiar freckled face that appeared in Harry’s hearth, but Malfoy’s smug smile and mercurial eyes. 

“Potter, get ready to thank me because I’ve found it,” he said, apropos of nothing. 

“Found what?” Harry asked. 

“Your house!” Malfoy paused and then frowned. “What on earth is all over your face?” 

“Flour.” 

“Flour,” Malfoy repeated, one eyebrow cocked. 

“I was baking. Or trying to.” 

“Baking. Christ, Potter, are you for real? No. Shut up. It isn’t important. Get dressed, right now. And wipe your face off, for Merlin’s sake. You look ridiculous. We’re going to meet Nellie in Hertfordshire.” 

“Hertfordshire? I’m busy. And it’s not Thursday!” Harry protested weakly. 

“Potter. It’s perfect. Trust me.” 

So he did. And it was. Perfect, that is. 

Welwyn Garden City was a short distance from central London but boasted sprawling green hills, quaint little houses, and a picturesque town square. 

The house was on the edge of the town – set off the main road at the end of a long pathway lined with hedges. As soon as Harry saw the kitchen flooded with late afternoon sunlight, the cozy living room and brick hearth, the corner bedroom with huge windows overlooking a garden, Harry could _see_ it. Even bare and echoing in that way houses without furniture did, he could see it filled with friends and warmth and for the first time in – Merlin, he didn’t even know how long – Harry felt hopeful. He hadn’t even realized he’d lost the feeling until it came flooding back. 

He signed the paperwork right then and there. Meanwhile, Malfoy and Nellie chatted over tea at the kitchen counter and Harry experienced a shock of disorientation. To see Malfoy chit chat so easily with a Muggle, to see her smile and pat his arm with doting, motherly affection, it messed with Harry. It was like living in some parallel universe where Draco Malfoy wasn’t a pureblooded snob, but instead a decent bloke, one you could introduce to your mum, one you could bring round for holidays. Someone a person could actually _be_ with. Not Harry, of course, but someone. 

Shortly later, they said goodbye to Nellie and Malfoy looped his arm through Harry’s and didn’t even drop it when the door closed behind them. Harry felt the points of contact so acutely he nearly lost his footing over a crack in the pavement. 

“All right there, Potter?” Draco asked, tightening his grip on Harry’s arm to keep him upright as if that didn't make Harry’s fumbling a hundred times worse. 

“I just bought a house,” Harry said aloud because somehow that made it real. 

“Well, not quite,” Malfoy said with a chuckle. “There is still a load of paperwork left to do, and I recommend you get a Muggle solicitor to look it over immediately. But – yes, Potter. You have a new house.” 

“Thank you,” Harry said sincerely. 

Malfoy stopped dead in his tracks, dropping Harry’s arm, and looked at Harry like he’d grown a second head. 

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” Harry continued. 

“You could have,” Malfoy said. 

“I wouldn’t have. Not if you didn’t bully me into it.” 

Malfoy snorted and started walking again. He didn’t retake Harry’s arm, but a small smile was playing at the corners of his lips. 

“I can be very convincing when I want to be,” he conceded. 

“No kidding.” 

“Come back to mine for a drink?” 

Harry hesitated. 

“Oh, come on, Potter. We ought to celebrate!” 

Harry thought about going back to Grimmauld Place, with its dark hallways and dust-covered curtains, to its glowering portraits and dated décor. Harry couldn’t think of any place he wanted to be less. 

“Merlin’s sake, Potter. It’s just a drink. And you already admitted I can be terribly persuasive.” 

“Is that what I said?” Harry teased. 

“I believe your words were, ‘utterly irresistible,’ but I’m paraphrasing.” 

Harry laughed because he couldn’t help himself. “More like pushy git, but okay.” 

“Potato potahto,” Malfoy said with a dismissive wave. “Come on then. I’ll break into the really expensive stuff. Blaise will have a coronary.” 

“Deal,” Harry said with a nod and took the proffered arm as Malfoy apparated them away. 

  
  
  



	8. In which Harry and Draco drink champagne and do utterly embarrassing things, like sing along to 80s synth-pop and talk about The Past

Draco was rather proud of himself. 

Potter had signed Witherbottom’s paperwork on the spot. There were still a number of legal hurdles to overcome before the sale was complete – but when Potter autographed in his sloppy scrawl on the dotted line and looked up at Draco, he fucking _beamed_ at him. And, well, Draco felt like he might have just won his biggest pot yet. 

A part of Draco – and not a small part at all – was smugly satisfied that neither Granger nor Weasley were present and that no one else could receive even an ounce of the credit for that smile. It belonged to Draco alone. Well, maybe a little bit Ms. Witherbottom, but he was fairly certain she’d concede defeat if pressed. 

Draco had given Potter something no one else could, and that was worth celebrating. Potter must have agreed because he hardly even tried to protest when Draco invited him back to the flat to toast to their victory. 

Draco dug up a few bottles of slightly dusty, very expensive champagne from the back of Blaise’s wine cabinet, not caring a lick that Blaise would probably kick his arse for it. He’d take that punishment willingly because Potter was loose and happy, and Draco was going to get him bloody drunk. It was going to be brilliant. 

They drank the first bottle out of Blaise’s finest crystal stemware, to which Potter popped out his pinky and said things like, “pip pip, old fellow!” and “capital, my good man, absolutely spiffing!” in an accent that was clearly an imitation of Draco’s own, the bastard. But even Draco couldn’t feign annoyance because Potter’s eyes were brighter than Draco had ever seen them. His cheeks were sweetly pinked, he looked permanently windswept, and damn it all, Draco was charmed. 

Potter was absolutely tickled to discover that Blaise collected Muggle records and so they dug through his extensive archives while they drank. 

Draco played Depeche Mode through the first two glasses of champagne. Potter put on The Ramones when they finished the first bottle. 

Halfway through the second bottle, they agreed on New Order and as “Age of Consent” blared in the background, they eschewed the glasses and drank straight from the bottle. When Draco licked his lips after he took a sip, he thought he could taste Harry on them. 

Draco cackled and took another swig from the bottle as Potter flipped through Blaise’s records, tossing the rejects behind him. Potter had clearly cast a wordless, wandless cushioning charm to keep them from breaking, instead causing them to bounce on thin air and land in a neat stack behind him – which Draco found both adorable and rather impressive. 

“Shite,” Potter announced as Janet Jackson went flying. “Double shite.” The Wallflowers. “Ugh, God. Just embarrassing.” Sinead O’Connor whizzed past. “Christ, is he serious?” Hasselhoff’s _Night Rocker_. 

Potter paused, a record in his hands. He looked at Draco and grinned mischievously. 

“What?” 

He took the record out of the sleeve and traded out New Order’s _Power, Corruption & Lies. _

“Don’t tell anyone, but I secretly love this song.” 

An upbeat drum line started playing. A few notes on an electric keyboard. Repetitious chords, endlessly catchy, always familiar. 

“Oh my god, Potter. A-Ha? Are you kidding?” 

“I’m sorry! I like this song.” 

“Everybody likes this song. Seriously. _Everybody._ And if they say they don’t, they’re lying.” 

“Even you then?” 

To prove his point Draco started to dance. He moved his hips, spun with flourish, pointed at Potter, and sang, “ _Talking away, but I don’t know what I’m to say. But I’ll say it anyway. Today is another day to find you. Shying away, I’ll be coming for your love, okay?_ ” 

Potter grabbed the hideous horse sculpture from the front table and, using it as a microphone, sang with him. 

“ _Take on me, take me on._ ” 

Potter jumped on the sofa in his sock feet. He was horribly off-tune and Draco was laughing so hard he felt high. 

“ _I’ll be gone, in a day or two!_ ” 

When they hit the high note, it was more of a shriek than singing, but they were both breathless from laughter and jumping around like children. Potter was playing an air keyboard and Draco was sliding across the wood floors and doing his best impression of the Elvis bloke he saw all over Vegas. 

“ _So needless to say, I'm odds and ends, but I'll be stumbling away, slowly learning that life is okay. Say after me, it's no better to be safe than sorry_.” 

_“Take on me. Take me on. I’ll be gone, in a day or two.”_

Draco took another swig of champagne directly from the bottle. He shimmied towards Potter to hand off the bottle, grabbed his hand, and swung him around. 

_“Oh, things that you say, is it a life or just to play my worries away? You’re all the things I’ve got to remember. You’re shying away. I’ll be coming for you anyway.”_

When the song ended and changed to something less familiar, they collapsed onto the sofa next to each other. 

Draco turned to look at Potter, who was grinning crookedly with his lip clamped between his teeth, the colour burning high on his cheeks. Draco had never wanted to kiss a person more in his entire life. He didn’t kiss him, of course. He just stared at Potter, until Potter caught him, and his smile turned soft and happy. Draco was absolutely certain Potter had never smiled at him this way ever. It was completely uninhibited, and it made Potter look so young and lovely. Draco’s heart lodged itself firmly in his throat and he swallowed hard around it. 

He reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair from Potter’s face, tucking it behind his year, his fingers lingering there for a moment too long. Potter gave him a funny look – fuzzy and bemused like he'd never seen him before. 

Draco couldn’t stand it. He bounded to his feet. 

“More champagne!” 

“Malfoy, no! I’ll be sick on Zabini’s expensive sofa.” 

“Don’t be such a lightweight. Certainly the Saviour of the Wizarding World can hold his alcohol better than that!” 

“I know firsthand that he can’t.” 

Draco popped the cork on another bottle and sucked the foam that spilled over the lip. “Your loss, Potty. This is a 1986 Louis Roederer Cristal Millesime Brut. Do you know what that is?” 

Potter shook his head, grinning. 

“It’s French for ‘Bloody Expensive.’” 

“You’re a bit of a lush, aren’t you?” 

“Darling, you have no idea.” 

Draco didn’t mean for it to sound so fond, but he was drunk and, fortunately, so was Potter, based on the way he smiled blearily at Draco and sunk deeper into the sofa. 

Draco’s body moved without the permission of his brain and he stepped up to where Potter was sprawled and dropped into his lap, one knee on either side of Potter’s hips. Draco felt Potter still beneath him as he took another long drink from the bottle, chasing an errant drop with the tip of his tongue. 

“Come on, Potter, mustn’t let it go to waste,” he said, his voice pitched low. 

He flashed Potter a wicked grin and pressed the bottle against his lips, tipping it gently and letting the golden liquid spill into Potter’s mouth. He caught most of it, with only a small droplet escaping his lips and cascading down his chin to his throat. Before Potter could wipe it away, Draco ducked his head and chased its trail with his tongue, dragging his lips over the stubbled jut of Potter’s jaw. 

Potter sucked in a ragged breath and Draco pulled back to see emerald eyes cloud and darken. Draco’s stomach jumped in response and he felt the arousal simmering low and constant in his gut snap achingly taught. He wanted desperately to rock his hips forward, to grind himself against Potter, to show the infuriating bastard exactly what he was doing to Draco. To make him _feel_ how badly he wanted him, with his disarming crooked smiles, his throaty laugh, the dizzying peat, leather, brown-sugar and _magic_ smell of him – but he refrained. 

Draco was never someone to deny himself a thing he wanted – certainly not when that thing was trapped beneath his weight and looking up at him with such fiery intensity it made him ache – but something in the denial was sweetly addicting. Potter was drunk and pliant and Draco thought he could probably shove Potter over the edge, could just kiss him with tongue and teeth and Potter might give into him, but it was then that Draco realized he didn’t want it like that. He didn’t want to trick Potter into his bed, he wanted him to go freely, to submit to the desires he so obviously had, and do so without reservation. For once, Draco wanted to win the game without an ace up his sleeve, he wanted to win because his hand was the best and because he deserved it. He wanted Potter to let him win, fair and square. 

He extracted himself from Potter’s lap. 

“Come outside with me.” He offered a hand to Potter, who took it without any reluctance and some part of Draco crowed in triumph. 

Draco kept hold of his hand and led him out onto the balcony. The night was hot and muggy and the sweat prickled under Draco’s arms and at the small of his back as soon as they stepped out of the cooling charms. He sucked in a deep breath of London air. It was heavy and just a little bit putrid, but it’s also rich with the scent of the jasmine, of cigarette smoke from the pub downstairs, and suddenly of Potter as he tucked himself next to Draco, pulling the champagne bottle from between his loose fingers. Potter took a swig as they gazed out over the London skyline. 

Draco needed something to do with his hands, so he pulled a cigarette from the crumpled pack in his pocket. He lit it and took a drag, then offered it to Potter, who did the same while Draco marveled over the thought that Potter’s lips had just touched the place his own had been moments ago – like a kiss, but not quite. 

“Do you miss it?” Potter asked, handing the bottle back to Draco. 

“What?” 

“London.” 

Draco chuckled and looked at Potter from the corner of his eye. The humid breeze ruffled his hair and his eyes sparkled in the city lights. Bloody gorgeous. “I never really lived in London.” 

“No? You seem very…Londony.” 

Draco laughed. “Do I? I suppose I ought to take that as a compliment. But no. The only place I’ve ever really _lived_ was Wiltshire. And Hogwarts, of course. But that’s different.” 

“So, where have you been all these years?” 

“Everywhere,” Draco sighed. “And nowhere.” 

Potter gave him an indiscernible look and Draco found himself elaborating, even though he didn’t mean to. 

“America, mostly. The Netherlands, sometimes. Germany, Sweden, Italy, France. I don’t stay any place for an extended amount of time.” 

“Why?” 

“Familiar with the phrase ‘don’t shit where you eat?’” 

“Yeah.” 

“Well,” Draco said, gesturing with the champagne and hearing it fizz as it sloshed against the sides of the bottle. “Once I burn through a place, I move on to the next.” 

“Don’t you worry about getting caught?” 

“Getting caught? For what?” 

Potter arched one dark brow. 

“I’m drunk, Potter, but not drunk enough to be admitting my crimes to an Auror.” 

Potter conceded with a shrug of his shoulders. “Out of my jurisdiction. And it isn’t like anyone listens to me anyway.” 

“Seriously, what the hell happened there?” 

Potter sighed and twisted, turning his back to the skyline and leaning against the railing, his head hanging back over great heights in a way that made Draco want to yank him away from danger, to shield him. 

“Robards doesn’t like me.” 

“No shit.” 

“He thinks I skated through Auror training on reputation.” 

“Did you?” 

Potter turned to him then, studying Draco’s face intently, searching in the sort of way that made Draco want to shrink from him. Potter shrugged. He did that a lot, Draco was realizing. “Yes and no. I mean, I never took my NEWTS. Got into the corps on Kingsley’s recommendation alone.” 

“That and defeating the Dark Lord.” 

Potter frowned. “That wasn’t just me.” 

Potter’s humbleness would have looked unsympathetic on anyone else, but on him, it was annoyingly sincere. 

“But I also had the highest arrest record in the whole department. Well, when they actually let me in the field. Apparently, I’m a PR liability.” 

“He’s just afraid,” Draco said. 

Potter looked at him surprised. “Why would you say that?” 

Draco scoffed. “Because you’re _you._ You’re _Harry Potter_.” 

“You never seemed to give a shit about that before.” 

“I still don’t. Not to worry Potter, I still think you’re a bastard and I always will. You have my promise.” He jabbed Potter in the ribcage to emphasize his point, even though all he wanted to do was press his lips against his neck. “Any old-timer in a position of power has every right to be afraid of you” 

“Yeah, but I can’t help being me.” 

“No. You can’t. But why you don’t leverage it more often, I’ll never understand.” 

“Of course you wouldn’t. You’d leverage any situation to your advantage if you could manage it.” 

“I realize that is supposed to be an insult, Potter, but I refuse to take it as one.” 

Potter shook his head, a lock of too-long dark hair falling over the rim of his glasses. “It isn’t, though. You’re a survivor. You do what you have to do.” 

Draco looked at him incredulously. “Did I just hear Harry Potter endorse my life of crime?” 

Potter chuckled and looked away. “It’s not like you were given a lot of options.” 

Draco boggled. “What do you mean by that? Because I’m certain you can’t mean what I think you mean.” 

“I mean that you were never given a chance to finish your education, to prove you were more than just Lucius Malfoy’s son. They wanted to lock you away forever, as you well know. They wanted to make an example of you.” 

“But you didn’t let them.” 

“You were just a kid.” 

“So were you. How does that make it any different?” 

Potter huffed and clasped his hands together over the balcony railing. He shot Draco a sidelong glance. “You were an obnoxious, dramatic prick in school, but you were never evil. You thought an awful lot of yourself, but you didn’t want to kill anyone. I know you didn’t.” 

“And how do you know that, Harry Potter?” 

“Because I didn’t want to kill anyone either. But sometimes, it isn’t up to us.” 

Draco stilled, but Potter kept going. “I’m not saying what you did was right. Hell, I’m not even saying what I did was right. People died because of me. And people died because of you. It wasn’t like either one of us went into those situations wanting that. We were casualties of war, you and I.” 

“But we didn’t die.” 

“Well, one of us didn’t.” 

Draco straightened. “So, it’s true what they say? You really died?” 

He’d heard the rumors, the whispers amongst his old friends from school that said Potter really had died at the hands of the Dark Lord, but that he’d come back to settle the score. Draco never really believed it. He assumed it was just one more myth, one more tall tale about the Great Harry Potter that served only to bolster his heroic image. 

But Potter nodded solemnly, his face drawn and unhappy and Draco believed it – believed _him_. 

“You know the difference between you and I, Potter?” Draco said. “I wouldn’t have come back.” 

Potter just nodded. “I almost didn’t. It was nice, you know. Being dead. A lot fewer expectations, that’s for sure. But then I thought about Ron and Hermione. I thought about Neville, Luna, Ginny, and Snape. Hell, I even thought about you. No one would have blamed me, I guess. I’m pretty sure everyone expected me to die in the end anyway. And maybe that is why I came back.” 

“Because no one expected you to live?” 

“That, and it seemed such a waste. My life had been short anyway, seemed like I at least ought to finish what I started before I checked out completely.” 

“Christ, Harry, it was never your war.” 

“Wasn’t it?” 

“ _No._ You were a pawn. No different from me. You have to see that.” 

He turned his body to Draco, still leaning too casually over the edge of the railing. 

“You’re still a pawn, the way you cow to Robards like that,” Draco continued. “You could obliterate him in a duel, you know.” 

“You think so?” Potter was smiling again, but it was still too sharp around the edges. 

“What world do you live in, Potter? Do you not realize what you’re capable of? Do you even know what it feels like to stand next to you?” 

“Tell me.” 

“It’s like standing next to a nuclear reactor, like sticking a fork in an electrical socket, like jumping into a bathtub with a toaster.” 

“That was a lot of Muggle references for a Malfoy.” 

“Yes, well, my life has changed an awful lot since you last saw me.” 

The hard edge to Potter’s expression softened. "I think you might be right.” 

“I’m just saying, you can be scary as fuck when you want to be, what, with the wandless, wordless magic. You do realize how rare that is, right?” 

Potter inclined his head but didn’t acknowledge anything. 

“I didn’t have a wand for the first year after the war. Do you know what that felt like for me? I’ve had magic my entire life, and to suddenly have to live without it? I was entirely lost. I would have given my left nut to do what you can.” 

“So, what did you do?” 

“I hid, mostly. I stayed with Mother in France for a few months. Traveled around a bit, but only to the places where no one had ever heard my name. Then I met someone. He was Muggle born. He taught me a lot of things. Not like the things we were taught about Muggles in school. He took me to football games, showed me the telly, introduced me to Muggle politics. It was all so complex in ways I never expected. I was always told that Muggles were these inferior beings, that it was through some kind of natural selection that they didn’t have magic. But you know what I realized? Muggles have a cleverness and ingenuity that you don’t find in wizards and witches. When everything can be solved with a spell, why investigate further? Why think critically? Why ever do anything differently than you’ve always done? I’m not saying Muggles are without flaws, but honestly, they aren’t so different from our own. They are prejudiced, resentful, and envious. They seek power and control through the same methods of violence and subjugation. In truth, there is very little that divides us, and most of those divides are created by purebloods, threatened by the Muggle way of life.” 

“It’s very weird hearing those words come out of your mouth.” 

Draco chuckled, soft and low. “I imagine it is. But it’s been a long time, Potter. I’m not the same person you knew at school.” 

Potter shrugged. “I never really knew you.” 

“No, you didn’t.” 

Potter studied him for a moment, his curious eyes flicking over Draco’s face. “How long have you known you were gay?” 

Draco laughed again. The conversation was so surreal, and he took another long swig of champagne. “I’ve always known.” 

“Really? But I thought you dated Parkinson in school.” 

“Pansy was my friend. We gave it a shot, I thought maybe I was bisexual, but no such luck. No, the Malfoy name was doomed to die with me. It’s for the best, I reckon. And what about you, Potter? How come you’re always the bridesmaid and never the bride? Why don't you date? Seems like it would be quite easy for you, being _you_ and all.” 

Potter snorted. “Who says I don’t date?” 

“The Prophet, Witch Weekly, The Quibbler, Which Broomstick, god, Potter, everyone.” 

“Read about me often, do you?” Potter asked with a curious smirk. 

“Oh, don’t flatter yourself. One can barely open the papers without an exposé on Harry Potter’s most recent excursion to the Tesco for biscuits. My god, alert the press, he went for the chocolate ones this time! Which only means you're not giving them anything more sordid to report.” 

Potter sighed. “I date. Sometimes.” 

Draco gestured for him to extrapolate. He couldn’t help it – he was desperate to know who Potter saw, who he liked, who he took to bed. 

“Mostly Muggles,” Potter admitted. 

“Muggles! But you’re Harry Potter! You could have anyone you want.” 

“Exactly.” 

“Modest.” 

“Not what I meant,” he said with a roll of his eyes. “I have no privacy. Anyone I date is either there for the attention or ends up hating me because of it. Muggles don’t know who I am. It’s easier that way. Without the expectations.” 

“But you can never really be yourself with them.” 

“No. But they don’t know that, and I’d rather that than have someone who _expects_ me to be someone I’m not.” 

“And who are you, Harry Potter? What is it that they don’t get?” 

Potter looked down at his hands, twisted together in front of him. “I’m just Harry. I want to be a good friend because my friends deserve the very best. I want to be good at my job based on my actions alone, not on my celebrity. I want to find someone who doesn’t expect me to be a hero or a martyr, someone who sees me exactly as I am.” 

“Just Harry.” 

Potter nodded. “Just Harry.” 

“I get it,” Draco admitted to the London skyline and took another drag of his cigarette. He could feel Potter looking at him but didn't dare meet his eyes. 

“Yeah,” Potter said. “Yeah, I think you might.” The heat of Potter’s stare dissipated and when Draco snuck a glance, his gaze had returned to the view. He reached out a blind hand and Draco shoved the bottle into it. He drank deeply. 

“I should probably go.” 

Draco’s stomach plummeted with disappointment. It was too soon. He wasn’t ready yet. 

“You don’t have to,” Draco said too quickly, and Potter gave him a strange look. “There’s a second bedroom. It’s yours if you want it.” 

“I shouldn’t.” 

“I promise not to take advantage,” he said with a wink. 

“I’m not afraid of you, you know,” Potter said, clearly not fooled. 

“Yes, I know, Potter.” 

“You can call me Harry.” 

“I should be calling you Auror Potter,” Draco purred. 

Potter tilted his head, and a grin tugged the corners of his lips. “Yeah, I don’t hate that. But Harry is better.” 

“You say that like we’re friends.” 

“We could be. If you wanted.” 

Draco risked another look at Potter. “Maybe I don’t want to be just your friend, _Harry.”_

Somewhere behind them, the record turned over. And suddenly, _Take On Me_ was playing again. Draco smiled at Harry and Harry smiled back. 

“Have to start somewhere,” Harry said. “I’ll see you next week.” 

Draco straightened and accepted the bottle of Champagne when Harry held it out to him. “I suppose you will.” 

Harry nodded and headed back inside the flat. Draco followed him like a shadow as he yanked his boots back on and stood in front of the lift. Draco kept his distance to keep from doing something foolish, like kissing him or dragging him to bed. 

“Goodnight, Draco.” 

“Night, Harry.” 

With a glance over his shoulder into the lift, Harry grinned and disapparated. 

A-Ha played in the background. 

_Take on me, take me on, I’ll be gone in a day or two._

Draco shot a Reducto at the record player and sent the record flying. He was sick of that song anyway. 

  
  



	9. In which Draco runs his mouth, acts impulsively, and does a bit of shouting.

Draco was one giant frayed nerve by the time Thursday finally rolled around again. Try though he might, he could not stop thinking about Potter – no, _Harry._ He found himself replaying their conversations repeatedly in his head until he wasn’t even sure what parts were real and what parts he’d imagined in some fit of fancy. It was utter torture. 

Perhaps it was the alcohol or the elation that came from spending a massive amount of money, but Potter let his guard down and gave Draco a peek behind the curtain – a view he found he’d desperately craved for many, many years. He wondered, was that how Harry acted around friends? Was he always so warm and candid? Because if he was, it was no wonder he had so many devoted to him. 

There was something almost magnetic about Harry, and it wasn’t just the draw of the magic that constantly surrounded him, a palpable aura of power. It was so much more than that. Harry was painfully sincere and so _intense,_ and Draco found that it didn’t matter whether he was around or not, Draco couldn’t get him out of his head. 

More than anything, Draco wondered what Harry would be like in a romantic relationship. Harry had so few public relationships that even Draco’s extensive research yielded next to nothing useful. But Draco would bet half his vault that Harry’s laser-focused intensity carried over into his relationships, just like it did with his friendships. He was probably attentive – perhaps suffocatingly so, but Draco didn’t think he’d mind that so much, as he’d been accused of something similar the few times he’d given his heart. And anyway, anyone moronic enough to be anything less than ecstatic over garnering the attention of a man like Harry Potter didn’t deserve him. 

Draco wasn’t even so sure _he_ deserved Harry, but that didn’t stop him from wanting him. And _oh_ , how he wanted him. He tried to label it as some symptom of prolonged isolation combined with seeing Harry exclusively in domestic spaces – the surreal attachment that came with playacting a couple in love. But it felt like a lie. 

Suddenly, just fucking Harry didn’t feel like it would be enough. He wanted to know what he was like in the mornings – did he wake all at once, bursting with energy, or was he muzzy and stumbling until after his first cup of coffee? What did he like to read? Was he a good cook or did he muddle his way through it and always end up adorably coated in flour? Was he openly affectionate with his lovers or tamp it down until they were alone and let it explode out of him like a blasting curse? There were so many questions swirling in the mire of Draco’s mind and it seemed that the harder he tried to control them, the quicker they bubbled to the surface. 

But time was growing short and Draco had less than four weeks left before he lost his paper-thin excuse to see Harry regularly and to command his precious time. 

By noon, Draco was buzzing. He’d been awake since six, consumed entirely too much espresso, changed his shirt four times, and smoked a half pack of cigarettes. He’d rehearsed his perfectly casual, “Hello, Harry,” in front of the mirror until he felt like a right twat. 

But then it was one o'clock. 

And one-thirty. 

Two-thirty. 

Draco was a wreck when Dominique at the front desk buzzed at a quarter to four, indicating the arrival of a visitor given access to the lift. He frowned. Usually, Harry just waltzed right in – probably flashing his badge, his scar, and that charmingly lopsided smile – but he didn’t have time to dwell on it before the numbers above the lift ticked up and up. 

Draco attempted to lean casually against the back of the sofa, but no. It was too short, and he was slipping. He leaned into his hip. But that was fucking ridiculous. He looked like an idiot. Hands in pockets? No! Gods, what did he usually do with his hands in these sorts of situations? 

He rearranged his limbs again, shooting for casual nonchalance but only achieving stiff and awkward and repressed the urge to scream. 

When the lift doors finally opened, it was not Harry Potter that stood in front of Draco, but a brutish witch in scarlet Auror robes with a long snarled ponytail and a cruel sneer on her square face. 

“Who the hell are you?” Draco demanded. “Where is Potter?” 

“Indisposed,” she said, stepping into the foyer and twirling her wand between her fingers, looking around the room with narrowed eyes. “Fortunately, I was there to cover for him." 

“Yes, fortunate,” Draco grumbled. He glared at her while she did a lap around the living room, lifting odds and ends with her meaty hands and dropping them carelessly. He wanted to hex her. He wanted to demand to know where Potter was. 

“Nice place” she commented, rounding on Draco. “How’d a Death Eater like you manage such fine accommodations?” 

Draco rolled his eyes. It became immediately apparent that this Auror, Briggs, according to the name on her tarnished, scratched-up badge, was not going to make this easy. It was no matter, really. Draco had plenty of experience dealing with low-level grunts like her. It was all so tedious and rising to the bait would do nothing but incense her further, and yet, he found he couldn’t quite help himself. 

“Yes, well, it was all I could find on short notice. Tried to get a reservation in Azkaban, but it was full up, thanks to you lot,” Draco said with a polite smile. “Well, perhaps not _you_ , specifically. Bit above your station, I reckon.” 

Briggs’ eyes flashed. Draco knew it was probably a bad idea to antagonize her, but damn it all, he was _disappointed._ Potter had skived off and not even bothered to tell him. He didn’t think that ought to sting as much as it did, and It wasn’t like he thought they were friends now, but he did think he deserved an explanation of some sort. 

“I’ve read your file, you know,” Briggs continued. 

Draco rolled his eyes. “You can read! Well done you. It’s encouraging to see the DMLE has raised their standards.” 

She snarled and took a step closer to Draco. “Recognized your name, _Malfoy_. See, I thought they threw your lot behind bars just after the war. But then I find that you were released thanks to the testimony of one Harry Potter. And here he is, in charge of your parole. Seems dodgy to me. One I can assure you I’ll be looking into.” 

“I think you’ll be rather disappointed with your findings. It is quite well documented that Potter’s testimony on my behalf was thanks to nothing more than his usual bout of righteousness and had very little to do with any sort of fondness for yours truly.” 

She circled Draco, then stopped in front of the tea Draco had left for Harry, steaming inside of one of Draco’s stasis charms. 

Briggs turned back to Draco, eyebrows raised. “And yet, here you are, throwing Potter a tea party?” 

Draco resisted the instinct to cringe. It had become a bit of a habit for him, the tea, ever since Harry gave him that soft, funny little smile after the first time. He wanted to kick himself for not vanishing it the second Briggs stepped through the door. 

“It’s polite to offer guests a refreshment. Helps to smooth the way,” Draco explained. 

“You didn’t offer me one.” 

“No,” he said, his tone clipped. 

She scanned Draco from head to toe, her lips curling in disgust. “Seems a waste, saving you.” 

“Hm. Then I suppose it’s rather lucky for me that it wasn’t up to you.” 

“That’s what's wrong with people like Potter. Everyone thinks he’s so special, a gift to the department, that he can do no wrong. And look what he goes and does – saves Death Eaters from prison. Gets himself checked back into Mungo's over a bit of heroics trying to save those who deserve precisely none of it.” 

“Mungo's?” Draco faltered. “Potter is hurt?” 

Briggs’ expression turned shrewd, her muddy eyes narrowing to slits. “Saw him carted off to hospital a right mess. Looks like the healers will have their work cut out for them this time. Maybe if Potter spent less of his time throwing his life away over Death Eaters and dark wizards, he wouldn't have to spend so much time in the Curse Damage ward. He’s a regular around there.” 

The bottom fell out of Draco’s stomach. Harry was hurt. Harry was _in hospital_. 

Draco suppressed his flinch, straightening his back and glossing over his expression with practiced ease, even though his chest ached. He couldn't give himself away, not to an ogre like Briggs who was poking and prodding in hopes of finding a sore spot to exploit. Draco refused to give her the satisfaction. 

“All right, arsehole, enough chatting. Wand out. Let’s see if you've been following the rules or if Potter’s been turning a blind eye.” 

“Not even going to offer me dinner first? My goodness, I’ve lost my edge,” Draco said coolly. 

The Auror stepped in close. She was nearly as tall as Draco and her breath smelled rank – like onions and burnt coffee. He wanted to cringe away but held his ground. 

“You’ve got a clever mouth, Malfoy, but I recommend you keep it shut. Potter may put up with your shit, but I’m not quite so generous,” she snarled. 

Draco passed over his wand reluctantly. He hated the look of it in her hands, much preferring the confident but gentle reverence with which Harry handled it. 

Briggs ran the spell. Harry probably would have rolled his eyes with exasperated humour at Draco’s creative use of sticking charms (which Draco found endlessly amusing and was the only reason Draco bothered to cast them), but Briggs sneered, her face pinching and puckering like she’d smelled shit. 

“What, you’re some kind of pervert then?” 

“I think the term you’re looking for is _homosexual_ , but I can’t say I’m surprised that yet another member of the DMLE approaches human sexuality like it’s 1895. Your lot aren’t exactly known for such modern concepts as toleranceand open-mindedness.” 

“That’s rich coming from you, Death Eater.” 

Draco rolled his eyes. Even though she spat the words like venom, Draco had long since grown used to the same old insults. 

"Potter may put up with your shite, fairy, but I don’t got half his restraint. No one would care if I let a little hex slip here and there, if you were a little worse for wear at your next meeting. And they certainly wouldn’t be so sympathetic if I told them how you’d threatened me, how you’d tried to curse me, but I was quicker and smarter and bested you, no trouble.” She brandished her wand. 

“If it’s a duel you’re aiming for, then I welcome the challenge. Somehow, I imagine your magical capabilities are bottom of the barrel, else you’d be working _real_ cases. Yet here you are, forced to pick up Potter’s leftovers. That must sting.” 

Briggs’ upper lip twitched. 

“Ah, hit a bit close to home there, then?” Draco declared triumphantly, pleased to have found a nerve. “Barely made it through training? Let me guess, it was the written tests that held you up? That’s all right. Even I can attest, it is quite uncomfortable being in Potter’s rather large shadow.” 

With a growl, Briggs turned on her heel and headed back towards the lift. Draco felt the bite of her stinging hex just as the doors slid shut. He winced but kept on his feet. Juvenile. Briggs’ magic was as weak as he'd anticipated – like brown coffee or the last drag of a cigarette before you hit the filter. Now, if Potter had hit him with that, it would have been a wildfire, a flash flood, a shock of lightning. 

_Fuck._ Potter. Harry wasn’t supposed to get hurt. Harry was supposed to be on desk work. Parole checks. The only type of injuries he was allowed to sustain were paper-cuts, and that seemed an unlikely cause for a trip to hospital. 

Draco was suddenly scrambling for his shoes and wallet, his mind whizzing with horrible possibilities, each worse than the last. 

Mungo’s would never let him anywhere near their precious Saviour and he was fairly certain the wards on Harry’s floo at home would blast him halfway to Bulgaria if he tried to force his way through. 

“Dammit!” Draco cursed, kicking the leg of the coffee table in frustration. He couldn’t just sit there twiddling his thumbs, waiting for news that Harry Potter had succumbed to spell damage and _died_. He needed to know if Harry was alright and he needed to know _now._

But if busting into Mungo’s wasn’t a possibility... 

Well, then he’d have to break down Harry’s front door. 

Draco only had a vague idea where Grimmauld Place was located. No wizard or witch outside of Harry’s inner circle really knew its exact whereabouts, but it was rumoured to be in a Muggle neighbourhood somewhere in Islington. So, being that apparition was out of the question, Draco did what any average Muggle would do when he needed to get somewhere but didn’t know exactly where: he got a cab. 

Unfortunately, the thirty minutes spent in the back of a cab in London traffic gave Draco plenty of time to think and therefore consider what the actual _fuck_ he thought he was doing. It wasn’t like he’d taken the time to come up with a plan, which was reason enough for pause. Draco _always_ had a plan. And at least one backup plan in the wings, should the first go arse up. 

What did he plan to do if Potter wasn’t home yet? If he was still at Mungo's, laid up, the life slowly slipping out of him? Did he just expect to sit on his doorstep until Harry either came home or someone called the Muggle police for trespassing? 

But there was no time for Draco to reconsider because the cab was already pulling up to the kerb and Draco was stepping out onto what appeared to be an unremarkable street lined with grim rowhouses. 

He paused, unsure of what to do next. Was he to just knock on Harry’s door and, if discovered alive, demand an explanation? Should he have brought flowers? That seemed a normal sort of thing to do for people with whom you had perfectly platonic relationships when they were sick or injured, wasn’t it? 

But no, fuck it all, there wasn't time for any of that. Shouting at Harry would have to suffice. 

Draco frowned. Potter lived at 12 Grimmauld Place. He knew that. They’d talked about it, he’d seen it on Harry’s housing paperwork, he couldn’t possibly have misremembered it, but before him stood an eleven and a thirteen. No twelve. 

Draco cursed his own stupidity. Of course, Potter would have the place warded to the teeth. This was Harry Potter, after all, only the most famous living wizard in England. 

Draco felt a fool. It had all turned into a massive cock-up, but just as he turned to leave, there was a shimmer in the air followed by a creak and a groan as the building expanded, sliding open to reveal Number Twelve, a doorway, and a very confused-looking Harry Potter with his arm in a sling. 

“Malfoy?” he called out; his brows knitted together. “What are you doing here?” 

Draco’s attention was immediately drawn to the bandages on Harry’s arm, the way he favoured his weight on the left leg, the pink puckering of a recently healed cut on his cheekbone. All of Draco’s fear and anger abruptly came bubbling back to the surface. He stormed up the steps to stand in front of Potter and jabbed a finger into his chest accusingly. 

“You _bastard!_ You missed our meeting and they sent fucking Briggs, who is an absolute bitch, you won't mind me saying, and she goes off insulting me and being entirely unprofessional and rude, which I can expect and handle just fine, but then she tells me you’ve gone and got yourself hurt! That you were _in hospital_ and I’d like for you to tell me how the _fuck_ you manage to get this banged up by doing desk work because unless you’ve had a run-in with a mad possessed stapler, then I think you’ve got some explaining to do!” 

Potter blinked rapidly. “I’m confused.” 

“Merlin’s tits, have you gone and hit your head too?” Draco asked, throwing up his hands in exasperation. 

“No. Well, not hard. I just – I don’t - are you here because you’re worried about me?” 

“Obviously! Christ, Potter, it’s _you_. You attract near-death experiences like a fly to shit! I had half a mind to assume you’d died!” 

“Okay, gross,” Potter’s nose crinkled, but he appeared to be stifling a smile. “And don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic?” 

“I do not.” And, okay, maybe that wasn’t entirely true. Maybe Draco was being a _touch_ dramatic, especially now that he saw that Potter was fine. Well, mostly fine. But he certainly wasn’t about to admit that to Potter. 

“You came to my house,” Harry stated. 

“Yes!” 

“You know where I live...” 

Draco didn’t like the wariness in Potter’s tone. Perhaps showing up unannounced and shouting at him was bad form, but they’d already discussed Harry’s living situation. It wasn’t as if Draco was _stalking_ him. He wasn’t here to harm him and even if he were, Draco was fairly certain Potter could take him in a fight, though he was loathed to admit it. 

“We talked about it, Potter!” Draco exclaimed in his defense. “I helped you buy a house, do you recall? There was _paperwork_!” 

Harry nodded slowly, then glanced back inside the house at something. Or someone. 

It suddenly occurred to Draco that perhaps Harry wasn’t alone because _of course he wasn’t._ This was _Potter_ , with his millions of friends and admirers constantly flocking around him like gnats. Draco was starting to feel extraordinarily wrong-footed. He had to get out of there. 

“Well,” he said, smoothing the nonexistent wrinkles in his shirt. “Lovely to see you aren’t dead or horribly maimed.” 

“I’m a little maimed,” Harry chuckled. 

“Right. Yes. Regardless. I best be off. Things to do, people to see.” It was weak, as far as excuses go, but Draco’s brain had clearly stopped functioning properly. Harry had that effect, it seemed. 

Harry rolled his eyes and shook his head fondly. “Do you want to come in?” 

Draco shifted his weight between his feet and twisted his hands behind his back. “I wouldn’t want to be a bother.” 

Harry laughed. “Since when?” 

“Oh, I’m sorry my _concern_ is bothering you, Potter. I’ll just fuck off then, shall I?” Draco snapped. 

“Oh, shut it. Just come inside.” Potter pushed himself away from the doorframe to wave Draco inside. 

Draco hesitated. He was about to enter Harry’s home for the first time and the idea that Harry would even allow him in the front door was a little shocking. It seemed rather monumental, but he couldn’t just stand there on the stoop all day, what with Harry looking at him like he might have a screw loose. 

The entryway was dark despite the bright summer sun burning outside. Dust motes floated through the sparse beams of watery light, casting the room in long shadows. The house smelled musty and ancient, but also faintly of Earl Grey and that warm honey, leather, magic smell of Harry’s. 

He surveyed the sorry state of Harry’s home as he trailed after him down the hallway toward the sitting room. The place looked like it hadn’t seen an update (or a cleaning charm) in a century, and it was no wonder Harry was so desperate to move. Grimmauld Place was dreary and sad and so very wrong for him. 

Draco must have done something unsightly with his face because Harry was staring at him with concern. 

“You’re being weird,” he said, his eyes narrowed. “Why are you being so weird?” 

“I’m just admiring your keen sense of interior design,” Draco said. 

Harry rolled his eyes. “Right. Come on then.” 

Draco followed Harry into the living room, where he came face to face with Luna Lovegood, seated cross-legged on the floor surrounded by cardboard boxes. 

“Hello, Draco,” she said in her soft, musical voice. 

And well, wasn’t that just Draco’s luck. 

  
  
  



	10. In which Draco shows his hand and Harry, predictably, doesn't even notice.

Malfoy was being weird. Weirder than usual.

When Harry felt the shift in the wards, indicating a magical force hovering around Harry’s carefully guarded perimeter, the last person he expected to find nervously pacing his doorstep was Draco Malfoy. Then he’d gone and shouted at Harry over...well, he wasn’t exactly sure what, but it sounded like _concern_.

Hermione did a similar thing, flapping about and scolding Harry whenever he got hurt because she seemed to find that easier than crying like Molly, joking about it like Ron, or slugging him like Ginny.

A few weeks prior, even considering the idea that Malfoy might worry about Harry’s safety would have been laughable. But now? Harry wasn’t sure, but it felt like something had shifted. It wasn’t friendship exactly, but it felt a little like it. That is, if friends insulted your intelligence constantly, and took the piss out of you at every chance they got – but also made you tea and helped you buy houses and sat in your lap and licked champagne off your face.

It was all very confusing.

Malfoy’s appearance at Grimmauld Place was definitely unexpected, but it wasn’t like Harry was disappointed _._ Hell, if it hadn’t been for Luna, Harry wouldn’t have hesitated to invite Malfoy inside. He was acting strange, for sure, and Harry was wildly suspicious because Malfoy was a scheming Slytherin prat who Harry had never seen do a thing without an alternative motive, but he wasn’t scared of him. On the other hand, Luna and Malfoy’s history was anything but rosy and while Harry wasn’t sure if he and Malfoy were friends, he was definitely friends with Luna. Making her uncomfortable was unacceptable and Harry had no qualms about booting Malfoy out if he even _thought_ about insulting her. But to Harry’s surprise, Luna simply smiled serenely and waved, seemingly unconcerned that Draco Malfoy had just appeared in Harry’s living room unannounced.

“Ms. Lovegood,” Malfoy said with a polite nod of his head. “Apologies for barging in. I wasn’t aware Potter had company.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” she said. “It is very nice of you to come to check on him. Harry is a bit accident-prone, you know.”

“So it seems,” Malfoy agreed.

Harry resented that but decided not to upset the tenuous balance by whinging about it.

“Luna’s helping me with the packing,” Harry announced just to have something to say and then felt like a bit of a tit because it was completely obvious what they were doing, what with the stacks of books and trinkets Luna was sorting into an array of boxes.

“That’s very nice of you,” Malfoy said courteously. It was weird. Very weird.

“Harry was sure to carry on even though he’s hurt. He likes to pretend nothing’s wrong,” Luna smiled at him softly. “But sometimes even Harry needs a little help now and again.”

They all stood there in awkward silence for a few moments until Malfoy said, “Then it looks like I’ve arrived just in time.” And with that, he settled next to Luna and started shifting the stacks of books from the shelves into the boxes.

Harry went and made tea because he didn’t know what else to do.

****

Luna and Malfoy helped Harry pack up his entire living room until there was nothing left but the lumpy old sofa and a battered coffee table with the remnants of tea.

The sky was dark by the time Luna patted the dust from her skirts and announced that she ought to be heading home.

Harry expected Malfoy to agree to the same and follow her to the door, but he stayed planted where he was on Harry’s sofa, one long leg crossed over the other and his arms stretched out over the backrest, looking as settled as a kneazle.

“Thank you for your help, Luna,” Harry said, giving her a one-armed hug. “You’re the best.”

“Take care, Harry. Don’t forget to change your bandages,” she said, patting him on the uninjured arm. “And Draco, you should give Pansy a call. She’d be very pleased to hear from you. She misses you terribly.”

Malfoy’s brows lifted, but he nodded to Luna. “I’ll do that.”

She smiled once more at Harry and swept out the door into the warm summer evening humming to herself.

They were alone.

In Harry’s house.

By themselves.

It was odd seeing Malfoy sitting in his living room like it was the most natural thing in the world. His casual elegance looked out of place in many ways, with his posh clothes, surrounded by the clutter and detritus of Harry’s life. But in other ways, he looked like he fit perfectly, like a missing puzzle piece that Harry had long since stopped searching for.

“Drink?” Harry offered because Malfoy was just sitting there with clearly no intention of leaving.

“Anything but tea,” he agreed.

“I’ve got whisky.”

“I like whisky.”

Harry nodded and with the twist of his wrist, summoned the bottle of Ogens and two tumblers from the kitchen.

Harry would have sworn he felt the temperature in the room raise five degrees. Malfoy’s licked his lips, his eyes darkening to a stormy gray.

Sometimes Harry cast wandless, wordless magic without thinking about it. His friends were all used to it and when he wasn’t with them or at work, he was alone, and it didn’t matter. Hermione had called it a flagrant use of power. Ron just called it wicked.

Malfoy seemed to have a different, significantly more visceral reaction to it and despite the flush that burned on Harry’s cheeks, he wanted to do it again, just to see if he’d imagined it. 

He twitched his fingers and the whisky set about pouring itself into the hovering glasses, which then floated gracefully into Harry’s outstretched hand. Malfoy lifted his gingerly from the air.

“Show off,” Malfoy said, but his voice was deep, rough. 

“Maybe just a little,” Harry admitted with a chuckle and sat down next to Malfoy on the sofa.

He left plenty of room between them but still felt the heat from Malfoy’s body as if it were pressed against him. Harry had never felt so simultaneously unsettled and drawn to a person, like his mere presence caused Harry’s skin to itch and his blood to boil in his veins. And yet, he still found himself wanting to move closer, to lean into him, just to see what it felt like.

Malfoy was watching Harry from beneath lowered lashes. It was predatory and heated and Harry’s stomach jumped in response.

“I’ll await your apology, Harry.”

“Apology? For what?”

“For forcing me to withstand Briggs’ verbal assault, for one.”

Harry winced. “Ah, yeah. Bad luck, there. Briggs doesn’t like me. It figures she’d take my rounds just to see if she could find some way to lodge a complaint about me.”

Briggs was a right piece of work. They’d gone through training together. Briggs, a transfer from the Portkey Regulation and Border Control Department, was about five years Harry’s senior and took an instant dislike of him after a minor incident during a practice duel. Harry hadn’t meant to send her flying over the worktable. He was still learning to manage the magical outbursts he’d been prone to since the end of the war and when Briggs decided to try and hex Harry while his back was turned, instinct just took over. She'd had it out for Harry ever since.

“I noticed. She couldn’t shut up about what a twat she thinks you are.”

“Well then you two should have hit it off.”

Malfoy clucked his tongue. “Absolutely not. I’m the only one allowed to call you such names. Are you trying to make me jealous?”

Harry smiled into his whisky glass.

“She hexed me, you know. Just there,” Malfoy said, gesturing to his clavicle, just beneath the unbuttoned collar of his shirt.

Harry made a sympathetic noise. He reached out and pushed back the fabric to expose a stretch of smooth, pale skin marred with a slash of violent red from a sloppily-cast stinging hex. He wanted to run his fingers over the skin, but instead, he let go of Malfoy’s collar and sat back.

“You’ll live, I reckon,” Harry said.

There was a pinkness to Malfoy’s cheeks that Harry didn’t think was there a moment ago. “And you?” he asked.

Harry sighed. “I’ll likely get hell at work tomorrow.”

“Are you going to tell me what happened today, Harry?” Malfoy said, his voice low and coaxing. 

“You didn’t ask,” Harry said, taking a distracted sip of his whisky.

Harry was entranced by the way Malfoy’s long, elegant fingers moved on his glass, turning it slowly where it was perched on his knee. Harry always had a thing for a man’s hands, the strength of them, the way the veins webbed over the backs, twisting with the flex of a fist. His own were broad and dark. The backs were littered with scars and sometimes he bit his fingernails so low they bled. But Malfoy’s hands were beautiful, and Harry could not stop thinking about them. They were pale and smooth as marble with slender fingers and perfectly manicured nails. He wore that weighty silver signet ring on his right index finger and a simple silver band on his left thumb. Even his wrists were lovely, delicate and slim as they curved up into lightly muscled forearms, exposed where Malfoy’s white cuffs were rolled stylishly to his elbows.

Malfoy never bothered to hide his Dark Mark, Harry noticed. He nearly flinched the first time he saw it again, when Malfoy was pressed against the dank basement wall that first night, as Harry’s spell curled its way around his wrists. It appeared to have faded slightly, gone gray and bled into the lilywhite skin of Malfoy’s inner arm. Harry wanted to touch it, to know if the skin there was raised or scarred, if it felt like regular skin.

“I’m asking now,” Malfoy said with a dramatic sigh. “Must you always be so difficult?”

Harry smiled into his drink. “Yes.”

He knew Malfoy would wait him out, but he didn’t really want to talk about it. He was going to get an earful from Robards when he went back to work the next day, and he had a feeling Malfoy wouldn’t be particularly pleased about it either. But when the silence stretched too long, Harry heaved a sigh.

“It was Fiendfyre,” Harry said, finally.

Malfoy went unnaturally still, his fingers no longer twirling his glass. His only movement was the slow lifting of his eyes to Harry’s.

“A couple of kids,” Harry continued. “Hardly dark wizards. Didn’t know what they were messing with when they let it out. They were just trying to scare some Muggles. It took down a block of warehouses before we got it under control.”

Malfoy cleared his throat. “And you felt the need to use yourself as kindling?”

Harry shrugged. “They needed all the help they could get. Those kids were still in there.”

Malfoy blinked slowly, which Harry found mildly unnerving. Normally, Malfoy blustered, he exploded, all fast-talking and wild hand gestures. But this was different, tense like a rubber band pulled too tight.

“You just can’t help yourself, can you.” Malfoy’s voice was so sharp it felt like a slap.

“It’s kind of my job,” Harry said, confused.

Malfoy slammed his whisky glass onto the coffee table so abruptly Harry flinched.

“Is it, Harry? Is it really? Do you mean to tell me that no one else aside from you is capable of doing their job? That is always _your_ responsibility to put yourself into the line of fire? Quite literally this time, I might add. One of these days, your luck is going to run out and you won’t be able to just saunter out because you’ll be dead, Harry. _Dead._ Permanently _.”_

Harry suppressed the urge to growl. He was so bloody sick of this conversation. He’d had it with Ron and Hermione until he was blue in the face. He’d heard it from Ginny near constantly while they were together. She’d accused him of not really loving her if he was so willing to throw his life away over strangers he’d never met.

“It’s who I _am_ , Draco! I can’t not help!”

Malfoy twisted next to him, leaning into Harry’s space, one hand on the back of the couch next to Harry’s shoulder.

“How bad did you get burned, Harry?” His voice was tight.

Harry winced. It had been a stupid mistake. The fire was so powerful and so bloody _hot_ it burned away his cooling spells as fast as he could cast them. He’d found the kid huddled in the corner of the warehouse loft, completely in shock. The place was coming down around them, the blackened wooden beams crashing to the ground, causing showers of sparks and burning embers to rain on them. He didn’t have time to think it through, he’d just pushed through the jumping flames, grabbed the kid, and dragged him toward the window. He’d felt the fire engulf his arm, burning and blistering the skin. It’d hurt like hell, but Harry was running on adrenaline and managed to fling the two of them out the open window onto a hastily cast cushioning charm, just as the main beam splintered and the roof collapsed. It was a closer call than Harry would have liked, but they’d made it out alive and mostly unharmed.

“I’ll heal,” he said.

Malfoy reached out with one hand and gently brushed his fingers along the jagged line of the freshly healed cut across Harry’s cheek. He was too close, and Harry held his breath.

“And this?” Malfoy asked.

“Ceiling beam came down,” Harry admitted. “Nicked me. Bled like crazy, but nothing serious. Healers patched me up. Scar should fade. They usually do.”

The fingers hovering over Harry’s cheek pushed into the hair over his ear, threading the strands into Draco’s loose grip. Harry’s eyes fluttered closed. He didn’t open them when he heard Draco shift next to him, didn’t dare look.

Then there was a cool breath against his face, the softest press of lips across the scar once, twice, three times.

“How many scars until you have enough, Harry?” he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of Harry’s ear.

And then he pulled back, taking with him the warmth of his lips and the whisky-tinged sweetness of his breath.

When Harry opened his eyes, Draco was back on his side of the sofa, his whisky glass once again in his hand as if nothing had happened. The only indication that his lips had just been held against Harry’s face, his hand buried in his hair, was the tinge of pink that painted his cheeks.

The silence settled around them yet again, a weighty, near-physical thing. Something was happening and Harry was terrified to examine it because if he did, he didn’t know that he’d like what he found. All he knew was that his pulse seemed to tick up when Draco Malfoy was in the room and every time he touched Harry, which was pretty often these days, it felt like there was a balloon expanding in Harry’s chest and he could hardly breathe.

Eventually, Malfoy got to his feet. “I should go.”

Harry just nodded dumbly and stood with him. He followed Malfoy to the front door and hovered in the doorway when Malfoy stepped out onto the stoop.

He turned to Harry, one hand tucked casually into the front pocket of his trousers. “Try no to get yourself too banged up before our next meeting, will you? I don’t think I can manage another round of verbal assault from Briggs.”

“No promises,” Harry said with a shrug, slouching against the door jamb.

Malfoy took a step toward Harry and tugged at his hoodie string. “You know, if you need any more supervision with the packing, I’m available.”

“Supervision?”

“Well, I’m not going to go round carting your things like a pack mule. But I’d be happy to make sure you don’t bollocks it up.”

“That’s very generous.”

“Anything for you, Harry,” Malfoy said with a wink.

Harry hated it when he winked. And he hated it when he said things like _that_. He knew it was just joking, that Malfoy was teasing him, but sometimes it felt a bit too much like flirting and it was doing funny things to Harry’s stomach.

“You know where to find me. Just let me know when you finally realize you’re in over your head,” Malfoy said. He turned from Harry and jogged down the stairs. He gave Harry a little salute and walked off down the street into the night.

Harry sank down onto the steps, elbows resting on his knees. He watched the moths dart around the streetlight, listened to the hum of Muggle electricity, the distant echo of sirens, the sound of someone’s telly droning on about the day’s news.

He didn’t feel like going back inside, where the air felt stale and the silence deafening. He thought about his little cottage in Welwyn. He thought about sitting in his garden on a summer night like that one and wondered if it would feel just as lonely.

Harry eventually gave up and went inside, where he made himself a cup of tea that he didn’t drink and went to bed early. As he lay in the dark staring up at the ceiling he thought about Draco Malfoy and wondered if he went to bed alone that night just like Harry.

  
  
  



	11. In which more people shout at Harry and he starts to seriously consider his life choices

Harry’s next day at work was, as predicted, totally shit. He wasn’t even supposed to be there, what with the Healers having a veritable fit when Harry demanded he be permitted to go back to work. Harry was on first-name basis with most of the Healers working the Curses and Spell Damage wards, and he managed to persuade them to release him with a promise that he would remain at his desk this time. It was hard to say whether they agreed because they believed him or had just given up trying to argue with him. 

Watts and Willoughby gave Harry hearty thumps on the back when he walked into DMLE. 

“Merlin, Potter. You’re making the rest of us look bad with those heroics,” Watts exclaimed, a wide grin on his boyish face 

“Jumping out of burning buildings again, Potter? They’ll be contracting you for the Muggle cinema if you keep that up,” Willoughby chimed in. 

Harry just shrugged them off with a weak laugh. He hated that everyone assumed he did it for the showy heroics, rather than just being, as Malfoy would say, a self-sacrificing idiot. It wasn’t as if Harry thought deeply about it before jumping into dangerous situations. He only saw the lives at risk and the small window of opportunity wherein he could protect those lives, and the rest was just instinct. 

Harry could feel Briggs’ narrow-eyed glare from across the room. Harry was feeling particularly agitated that day and he was in no mood to get into it with her, but unfortunately, her desk was strategically placed right outside his office door and if expected to get to relative safety, there was no avoiding her. 

Harry kept his eyes on his door and hoped that Briggs would keep her mouth shut. 

“Potter, back so soon? I was sure the Healers would keep you locked up another day,” Briggs said, slurping coffee from a chipped mug. 

“They certainly tried,” Harry admitted with a tight smile. He was only an arm's length from the safety and solitude of his office. Just a few more steps and– 

“That’s a relief for me then. Means I don’t have to tolerate petty jabs from the Death Eater faggot in his ivory tower.” 

Harry’s blood ran cold, and he halted with one hand gripping the doorknob to his office. “What did you just say?” 

“I don’t know how you tolerate him, Potter. Bet he’s nicer to you since he’s got hopes of crawling into your trousers. Is that how he negotiated his bail for Azkaban too?” 

Briggs’ mug exploded. 

Briggs flung herself back from her desk and scrambled to her feet. 

“Fucking hell, Potter, what was that?” she snarled. 

Harry rounded on her. “Will you ever learn to stop running your mouth, Briggs? Or is the nastiness your way of deflecting from your pathetic arrest records?” 

“So, you’re already bumming him then, are you? I’m sure all your fans would absolutely love that, wouldn’t they, Potter? Skeeter would go wild for this exclusive.” 

Harry had a fistful of Briggs’ robes and was smashing the other fist into her smug face before he even realized what he was doing. She cried out, her hands scrabbling against Harry’s iron tight grip as she flailed to free herself. There was commotion all around them and suddenly Watts was yanking Harry off Briggs while she sputtered and cursed. 

“I’ll see you sacked for this, Potter!” 

“Potter!” Robards' voice boomed over the chaos. “My office. Now.” 

Harry straightened his robes and huffed. The entire office was frozen and staring at Harry with wide, startled eyes. Willoughby was masking a crooked grin behind her fist and Watts was hovering next to Harry, ready to grab him again if he went for Briggs’ throat. 

Harry’s day was just getting better and better. 

He was still fuming as he sunk into the chair in front of Robards desk. Robards was studying him with a mixture of barely suppressed rage and utter disappointment. 

“You aren’t making this easy for me, Potter.” 

“I wasn’t aware my job was to make things easy for you, sir,” Harry said, his voice a low growl. It was like poking a bear with a stick, talking back to Robards that way, but for some reason, Harry just couldn’t help himself. He was so bloody sick of the lot of them. He was sick of the rules and the paperwork and the reverent, guarded looks that followed him around the office. 

Robards scrubbed a hand across his face and sat forward in his chair. “Potter, why did you become an Auror?” 

That wasn’t the question Harry expected, but he answered it truthfully and the only way he knew how. 

“To help people, sir.” 

“That you do, Potter. But this...going against protocol? Now assaulting other Aurors? What’s next?” 

Harry frowned. “Are we talking about yesterday? I told you in my report, those kids would have died. There wasn’t enough time. Protocol was out of the question.” 

“You can’t just sail in unchecked!” 

“So, this isn’t just about yesterday.” Harry sunk deeper into his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. 

“It _is_ about yesterday!” Robards shouted. “And yes, it’s also about the Ingalls case! It’s about attacking a fellow Auror! For Merlin’s sake Potter. You broke her nose!” 

Harry crossed his arms, indignant. “Well, maybe Briggs should watch her mouth and she wouldn’t get assaulted so often.” 

“Harry.” 

“So, Briggs can be a homophobe and a bigot, and I just have to accept that? We can let kids die in a fire while I fill out the proper paperwork because you can’t risk the bad press? You can just stand by and let what happened to the Ingalls kids happen, even though I _told_ you they were being targeted? I told you I needed backup!” 

Robards slammed his fist on the desk. “It’s about following orders! It’s about doing your damn job!” 

“I _am_ doing my job! And what about your job? What about keeping the bodies from piling up?” 

“And you think you can do a better job of that than I can, is that it, Potter? You may have defeated Voldemort but you’re still just a kid. A kid with too much power and no discipline. I’ve been doing this job almost as long as you’ve been alive. You don’t know the first thing about politics.” 

“Fuck your politics! I’m not going to be your figurehead or your fall guy, Robards. Not anymore.” 

“Then maybe you ought to reconsider your employment with the DMLE.” Robards' voice was cool but the vein in his forehead was throbbing and he’d gone an alarming shade of purple. “You want to deal out vigilante justice and break protocol? I clearly can’t stop you. But I won’t tolerate it in my department and under my watch.” 

“So, you’ll leave me at a desk for the rest of my career. Is that it?” 

“If that’s what it takes to teach you your place? Then, yes.” 

It took every ounce of Harry’s will to contain the magic that threatened to lash out and he gritted his teeth against the whipcord tightness of it. He pushed it down, coiling it into a tangled ball in his chest, his breath catching around it. 

“Take the weekend and cool off, Potter. Now, get the hell out of my office.” 

Harry left, slamming the door behind him hard enough to rattle the frames on the walls. 

**** 

When Harry arrived home, it was to find Ginny sitting on his stoop blowing bubbles with pale blue chewing gum in the sunshine. 

She whistled at him as he stomped up to her and obliterated the wards with an angry slash of his wand. 

“Bad day at work, Harry?” she asked with a smirk and snapped her gum. 

“What makes you say that?” Harry replied dryly and walked straight to the kitchen, pulled a beer from the fridge and drained half of it in one pull. 

Ginny leaned her hip against the kitchen table. “Pretty sure the barometric pressure for the whole street just dropped.” 

Harry took a deep breath and let it out through his nose. 

“Just Robards,” he said. 

“That dick again? Merlin, Harry. Just quit already.” Ginny helped herself to a beer and popped the cap with her wand. She stuck her gum to the inside of the bottle cap and hopped onto the counter, freckled legs swinging, heels hitting the cupboards with the backs of her trainers. “Shacklebolt would absolutely ream him for losing you.” 

“And then what would I do?” 

“I dunno,” she said with a shrug. “Whatever you want.” 

That was the problem, Harry didn’t know what he wanted. He supposed he’d never really known. His life had been planned out for him by the time he was eleven, and before then, he didn’t even bother dreaming about a future. For Harry, the decisions were never really his own and as soon as the war ended, it was as if he’d been set adrift, bobbing along from day to day hoping they counted for something but never really sure that they did. 

“Merlin, Gin. I wouldn’t even know where to start,” he admitted. 

Her expression went a little soft, but not pitying, never pitying. “Well, how about you start with what you _don’t_ want.” 

Harry leaned back against the countertop, spinning the beer bottle between his fingers, picking at the damp paper label. 

“I don’t want to be stuck at a desk for the rest of my life. I can tell you that much.” 

“So, time to quit the Aurors.” 

Harry huffed. 

“Oh, come on, Harry. So long as Robards is in charge, he’ll never let you back in the field. You’ll spend the rest of your career butting heads with the old man until either he dies, or you do, because there is no way Kingsley’s going to give him the boot.” 

She was right, of course. As much as Harry didn’t want to admit it, he and Robards were at an impasse. 

“Okay. What else _don’t_ you want to do?” 

“I don’t want to stand around posing for photos and doing interviews about my favourite food or perfect date,” Harry said with a frown. 

Ginny giggled. “I guess that means your career as a male model and tortured celebrity is over.” 

“Don’t know why it ever started, to be honest.” 

“Oh Harry, it’s almost precious how dense you are.” 

“Merlin, Gin you sound like – like someone else I know. Never mind.” 

She raised her eyebrows, but Harry clamped his mouth shut. She sounded like Malfoy, but there was no way he was going to say that aloud, not without subjecting himself to a very long and intense line of questions that he was not prepared to answer. 

“It’s because you’re fit, Harry. And very mysterious. People love that.” 

Harry rolled his eyes. 

“Don’t give me that look, you daft bastard. Do you even own a mirror?” 

“There is one in the upstairs loo, I think? I don’t know. There’s a ghost that shouts at me and makes fun of my hair every time I use it.” Harry patted his hair self-consciously. 

“Well, then you’ll have to take my word for it. You’re fit and you could be a wasted youth that survives on half-hearted interviews and photos in your pants if you wanted.” 

“I’ll pass thanks.” 

He didn’t tell Ginny that there had, in fact, been photos in his pants, though he’d never had the guts to look at them. She’d never let him live it down. 

“Okay, so no Aurors, no celebrity burnout. What else?” 

“I don’t know, Gin! I just – I want to be helpful. I want to do something useful.” 

“You have all those charities. Why not help with that?” 

Harry shook his head resolutely. “We all know that’s Hermione’s thing. I’m just the very deep pockets in that equation.” 

“You could be more.” 

“A figurehead. Again. And that’s just it, isn’t it? Everyone wants me to be Harry Potter the Chosen One, or Harry Potter the Boy Who Lived! No one wants me to be just Harry, the bloke with almost no marketable skills, a bit more magic than he can handle, and a generally bad attitude.” 

Ginny snorted. “Wow, Harry, put that on a resume and they’ll be breaking down your door.” 

“But that’s who I am, Ginny. That’s why everyone always ends up disappointed in me.” 

The ‘even you,’ hung in the air, even though it went unsaid. Harry knew Ginny heard it anyway. 

Ginny hopped off the counter and set down her beer. She gathered Harry’s hands in her own and looked into his eyes. 

“You’re wrong, Harry. You’ve always been wrong about that. You think that’s who you are, but I can promise you, you are so much more. You have one of the biggest hearts I’ve ever known. You put everyone before yourself. You have the most miraculous capacity for decency and love, and yeah, maybe you can be a little volatile. And a little surly. But you’ve been dealt one of the most unfair hands and somehow, you came out like this. Kind, caring, painfully supportive. I only wish you’d be as good to yourself as you are to everyone around you because you deserve nothing less, you know.” 

Harry averted his eyes and swallowed hard. He could never seem to keep his composure in the wake of Ginny’s unrestrained warmth. It always managed to blindside him in its boldfaced tenderness. 

Ginny carded one hand through Harry’s hair and smiled at him softly. “You know I love you, right?” 

Harry exhaled a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Yeah, Gin. I know.” 

“You can do anything you want. Hell, you can even do nothing for a little while. No one will hold it against you. Just...be. For a little bit.” 

Harry found himself nodding. 

“Do something just for you, for a change.” 

“I bought a house,” he blurted. 

Ginny’s eyes went wide. “You what?” 

“I bought a house. Just for me.” 

Ginny blinked at him a few times. “When did you do that?” 

“Last week.” 

“Last week?!” 

“Yeah. Outside the city. It’s pretty great.” 

“How - that’s - well that’s bloody fantastic!” 

“You think?” 

Ginny grinned wide and gripped Harry by the shoulders, shaking him. “Fuck yes! You mean you’ll finally be rid of this sad old shithole?” 

Ginny’s enthusiasm was infectious, and Harry felt a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “You don’t think it’s wrong? Getting rid of Sirius’ house? Like, an offense to his memory or something?” 

She leveled Harry with a look. “Harry, Sirius didn’t even like this house. He’d probably be thrilled you’re getting rid of it. Good riddance, he’d say.” 

Harry never thought of it like that. He’d clung to the last gift Sirius gave him like a lifeline to his godfather, a desperate attempt to feel close to him, even though it just made him miserable. Letting go of Grimmauld Place felt like lifting a weight from his shoulders that had been there so long he’d forgotten how it ached. And now it was gone, all he felt was an unbearable lightness. 

“Where did you find this new place?” Ginny asked. “There’s no way you did it on your own.” 

“I can do things on my own,” Harry argued petulantly. 

“Harry, we can hardly get you into a new pair of trainers without someone bullying you into it. Was it Hermione? She didn’t mention it. She would have mentioned it.” 

“’Mione doesn’t know yet. Only Luna knows.” 

“Luna helped you? Merlin, Harry. Does she have you moving into a yurt? A treehouse? I mean, bless her, but even with Parkinson around, her tastes are anything but utilitarian.” 

Harry laughed because she was right. 

“It was someone else. And I had a real estate agent. A Muggle one.” 

Ginny’s appraising gaze sharpened. “Someone else? Harry Potter, you’re being purposely cagey, and I don’t care for it.” 

Harry sighed and shook his head. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you anyway.” 

Her eyes narrowed and she studied his face as if she could pull the answers straight from his mind. Fortunately, Harry knew he didn’t need to worry. Ginny was a shit Legilimens; her mind had all the subtlety of a battering ram. 

“Fine. Keep your secrets. I’ll get them out of you eventually.” 

“I have every confidence you will,” he said honestly. Lucky for him, Malfoy would be long gone by then. 

“Given any thought to who you’ll be bringing to the wedding?” Ginny asked, leaning back against the counter and taking a sip of her beer. 

Harry groaned. “Ginny, we’ve been over this.” 

“Harry,” she whined. “You have to bring someone! You’re the maid of honor, it’ll look weird and depressing if you go alone.” 

“Merlin, Gin, I’m not the fucking maid of honor. And can we go back to where you were calling me fit and mysterious, please?” 

“My mum will torture you, you know that don’t you? She’s already spoken to Mrs. Fitzpatrick from her gardening group and Mrs. Rosenblum from down the road about whether they’ll be bringing their daughters. Have you met Dora Fitzpatrick’s daughter? Harry, she’s horrible. She has a voice like a dormouse and a face like a slapped arse." 

“Don’t be cruel,” Harry said, even though he barely managed to suppress a chuckle. “I’m sure they're lovely girls." 

She shot him a withering look. “Don’t be difficult, Harry. I could set you up with Mindy, the chaser from the Ravens. She’s quite nice and good looking.” 

“Pass.” 

“Pass? Why pass? She’s perfect.” 

Harry winced. “I may have said something off-colour about her use of the Transylvanian Tackle in the playoffs and she threw her drink in my face.” 

“ _Harry!”_

“In my defense, it's barely even a legal move when executed properly and she was miles off a proper execution.” 

“Gods. Fine. What about the cute bartender at the Leaky? Hannah said she was eyeing you last pub night.” 

“Pretty sure she was mustering the courage to ask for an autograph.” 

“So?” 

“So, no fans. They make me uncomfortable.” 

“Fi-ine.” Ginny twirled her ginger hair between two fingers the way she did when she was thinking. “There’s always that girl who works with Hermione over at the Magical Creatures for Peace and Unity organization. Olivia?” 

Harry remembered her. She was pretty and quiet but had made Harry laugh when she made a joke about whether the werewolf politician ever called himself an Aware Wolf during a particularly tedious board meeting. 

“Yeah, she seems all right,” Harry said with a shrug. 

“All right? That’s like a glowing recommendation coming from you! You should ask her. She’d probably say yes.” 

She probably would, Harry thought. She’d smiled sweetly at him and told him to call her if he ever needed anything, and she’d emphasized the _anything_ pretty heavily. Harry imagined he could probably tolerate an evening with her better than he could Mrs. Weasley’s constant matchmaking. At least he would be able to enjoy himself in peace. 

“I’ll think about it, okay?” Harry agreed. 

“You do that,” she said. “Now, when do I get to see your new house?” 

Harry smiled and told her everything. Well, almost everything. 

  
  
  



	12. In which Harry builds Ikea furniture and Draco bullies him into Prada

The Wednesday after Harry’s accident, Draco received an owl. It was incredibly fortunate because Draco’s days were beginning to drag, one bleeding into the next, only differentiating themselves as days with Harry versus days without him. It was obvious which one Draco preferred, but he decided not to get his hopes up that he would hear from Harry, as that would only lead to disappointment, frustration, and eventually madness. He was fairly certain he was already on the verge.

So, when a nondescript owl dropped a wrinkled scrap of paper into Draco’s poached eggs that morning, he was pleasantly surprised to find it was from Harry – that is, if ‘pleasantly surprised’ meant he spilled his tea all over the _Daily Prophet,_ yelped like an adolescent girl, and practically swatted the owl out of the air to grab it.

_What do you know about Ikea furniture?_

_HP_

Draco immediately dragged out Blaise’s laptop and set out to learn everything he could about ‘Ikea,’ which was apparently a rather ingenious Scandinavian design house. Unfortunately, Draco’s computer skills were nonexistent, and he only managed to get as far as the Ikea homepage, but at least he wouldn’t look like a total dolt to Potter.

He replied to Harry’s note post haste.

_Soliciting my expertise already, Potter? You really are useless. I’ll be there in an hour._

Draco dressed to impress in slim, light gray suit trousers and pale blue shirt that set off his eyes rather nicely and went to meet Harry at his new house in Welwyn.

Soon later, Draco discovered that Ikea furniture was actually designed by a sadistic, villainous mastermind and he decided he’d had quite enough of it within the first twenty-five minutes. He did, however, assure Harry that he would have his continued moral support, just from _over there_ , on the carpet, with a stack of magazines. He declared it ‘research,’ and set about dog-earring pages featuring acceptable, non-Ikea furniture. To which Harry called him a lazy brat and a few other choice names that Draco did not bother to acknowledge.

Furniture-building torture aside, Draco liked Harry’s new house quite a bit. It was still mostly empty, but it had a lovely feel to it – airy and light in comparison to the dark, dank, and infinitely depressing that was Grimmauld Place. And he liked Harry’s company, with his grumbling and frowning at cryptic diagrammed papers, surrounded by tiny heaps of screws and plastic knobs, and smelling of endless forests and tea with honey and a shot of whisky. Although Harry seemed to have a fuse shorter than a Norwegian Ridgeback, he positively radiated happiness while puttering around his new home. Even though moving was shit, Harry had thrown himself into it with great enthusiasm, packing nearly all his things and carting them over to Welwyn within the span of a few days. And happiness, as it turned out, was a painfully attractive look on Harry. He was glowing and smiling and laughing with ease, and Draco thought he might die from wanting him.

“I know we planned to meet at four o’clock next week, but could we switch to two instead?” Harry asked from his place on his knees surrounded by particle board and the debris of some devilish contraption called the Bryggja (which was probably Swedish for Bookcase of Death and Impending Divorce).

“I suppose I can pencil you in,” Draco said, slowly turning the page of his magazine.

“Thanks,” Harry said, inspecting a handful of screws with a frown. “I have to be somewhere by five.”

“Hot date?” Draco asked, feigning nonchalance. The idea of Harry going on a date made Draco go hot all over and he felt like he might toss up his lunch, but he had to know, as sick as it was.

Harry snorted and plucked a screw from the handful to look at it more closely, his eyes nearly crossing behind his glasses. “No. Just a friend thing.”

Draco turned the page again even though he wasn’t really looking at the magazine but watching Harry through his lashes.

“Does your ‘friend thing’ know it isn’t a date?”

Harry looked up from his screws. “What? No. It’s –” he sighed. “It’s my birthday, alright? Hermione is throwing me a party, even though I said I just wanted a quiet night in. But she thinks I’ll enjoy it, and who am I to disagree?”

Draco stared at Harry. “It’s your birthday.”

“Yeah. Next week. That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

“Did you have any plans to _tell me_?”

“Tell you – why would I need to tell you?”

Draco scoffed and gave Harry his most condescending gods-you're-such-an-idiot-I'm-embarrassed-to-even-be-in-love-with-you look.

“Well, if I’m expected to come up with a suitable gift, it would certainly be _polite_ to give me more than a few days’ notice, Harry.”

“You want to get me a gift?” Harry looked dumbfounded.

“I want to get you the best gift. I want to make everyone else look like insignificant twits because my gift is so perfect and superior to theirs that they honestly question their importance in your life.”

“That’s…alarming. And weirdly competitive. But also, kind of sweet?” Harry said with a small, confused smile.

Draco glared at him.

“No matter,” Draco said, turning his attention back to his reading. “I’m up for a challenge. Tell me, are you more partial to French or German cookware because I noticed you lack proper – oh my _god.”_

Harry looked up, startled. “What’s wrong?”

Harry pushed to his knees and began to crawl toward where Draco was stretched out on the carpet. Draco snapped the magazine shut, but kept his finger holding his page.

“What is it?” Harry was starting to look a bit concerned.

Draco sat up, crossing his legs. He clutched the magazine to his chest and took a deep inhale. “Excuse me. I’m going to need a moment to compose myself.”

“Just tell me, will you? Do you have to be such a dramatic arse about it?”

“I may be dramatic, but at least I’m not the one posing _in my pants_ for a women’s magazine! Oh my _god_ , Potter! They’ve oiled you up like a Christmas ham!”

Harry lunged for the magazine, but Draco snatched it easily out of his reach.

“I think not! I’m keeping this. I can’t _believe_ I haven’t seen this one yet!”

“This one?! You’ve seen others?”

But Draco ignored him. He opened the page back up and Merlin’s tits, it really was something. Harry was in nothing more than white pants with a grey waistband. The flexing muscles of his abdomen were indeed slicked and shining. His glasses were pushed up into his hair and one hand was wrapped around the back of his neck, his chin and eyes downcast. It was a very Harry thing to do, appearing sheepish and unassuming. But there was a knowing smirk on his lips that grew into a grin – the only movement in the photo – and Draco had to actively keep from adjusting his cock in his trousers.

“It was the photographer’s idea. I never know what to do in photos, so I just do what they tell me,” Harry said, scrubbing a hand under his glasses, his cheeks flaming.

“And thank Merlin for that, or I’d be looking at a photo of you in tatty trainers and a jumper giving a thumbs-up instead of _this_.”

“I honestly can’t tell if you’re taking the piss or not.”

“About you looking like a dimwit in photos without an art director? Definitely not.”

“Christ. I never saw the photos they went with for that one. Couldn’t bear to look, if I’m being honest. Let me see.”

Harry winced when Draco handed him the magazine, then chucked it back at Draco indelicately. Draco smoothed the wrinkled page.

“I think I look like a right tosser.”

“I think you look bloody fit.”

Harry’s eyebrows practically hit his hairline.

“I knew you were hiding something appealing under those hideous clothes,” Draco continued. “But I didn’t know it was _this!”_

Harry’s blush deepened. “Do you always just say whatever pops into your head?”

“Of course not. That would be ludicrous. I just like it when you get flustered and go all red.”

“So you _are_ taking the piss?”

“Oh no, it’s all entirely true.”

“You’re a very confusing person, do you know that?”

“Oh, Harry. I’m not confusing at all. In fact,” Draco said, leaning into Harry’s space, “I’m actually quite direct. It isn’t my fault you’re about as observant as a doorstop.”

“I’m-” Harry frowned. “I’m not exactly sure what that means.”

Draco laughed. “Exactly, Harry. Exactly.”

Draco rolled the magazine, cast a shrinking charm, and tucked it into his shirt pocket. “You don’t mind if I keep this, do you?”

Harry shrugged. “Sure. Toss it, burn it, use it as a coaster. I don’t care. I certainly don’t want to look at it.”

“Merlin, Potter. It’s lucky you’re so pretty. No other way you’d get away with being this thick.”

Harry just frowned and went back to his Ikea disaster.

****

Draco was back at Harry’s house on Saturday, comparing two shades of yellow for his kitchen walls.

“I think I prefer Buttercream to Cornsilk,” Draco said, studying the two swatches in the late afternoon sunlight.

“I think they look exactly the same.”

“Of course you would, Harry. You have absolutely no sense of style.”

“I don’t see what style has to do with it. Yellow is yellow.”

“Yellow is _not_ yellow, Harry!” Draco gasped. “Would you suggest that marigold is the same as sunflower? That butternut is no different from mustard?”

“Well, yeah?”

Draco scoffed. “Gods, Potter. Could you imagine if I left you to your own devices with this house? It would look like a dormitory.”

“It is my house, you know. I can make it look like a dormitory I want.”

“Just because you _can_ doesn’t mean you _should._ Honestly, you’re going to be grateful for my help when you see it finished,” Draco said and dropped the colour swatches back onto the kitchen table with the others.

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry grumbled, but he was smiling.

“You know what we need, Potter? Some air. Let’s get away from the walls for a bit so that when you come back, you’ll undoubtedly see my point of view.”

“I don’t know. There’s still so much to do,” Harry said forlornly, looking around at the stacks of cardboard boxes that littered every room in the small house.

"Oh, live a little. What time do you work tomorrow?”

“I’m off.”

“Really?” That was a bit odd, Harry usually worked the morning shift on Sundays, what with having no life at all.

“I’m – ah – on temporary leave,” Harry said, his mouth doing something odd and twisty as he shoved a hand through his mess of raven hair.

Draco’s eyebrows shot up before he could stop them. “Oh my. That sounds drastic.”

“It’s nothing. Just a few days off.”

“You don’t take days off, Harry.”

“How do you know?” he snapped.

“What did you do? Finally lay into Robards for being an ignorant prat?”

“Something like that.”

“You’re kidding! Did you really?” Draco asked gleefully.

“And I may have gotten into it with Briggs.”

“You didn’t.”

“She was running her mouth and I was already in a crap mood. I didn’t mean to clock her. Well, I meant to...but I didn’t _mean_ to, you know?”

“You slugged Briggs? Oh my god. Oh my god! That’s fantastic. I wish I had been there! What did her face do? Did it go all constipated? Did she bleed? Cry? What did she even say? It must have been something particularly awful. Let me guess, did she call you a name? Make a joke about your scar? Your dead parents? Your hair? Your horrible fashion sense? I have to know.”

Harry cleared his throat and studied his shoes. “Actually, it was about you.”

Draco paused and snapped his mouth shut.

“I’d rather not repeat it, if you don’t mind. Just take my word for it. It was not exactly polite.”

“Yes, well.” Draco attempted to recover from his shock, but his voice sounded a bit too thin. “She didn’t find my clever use of charms during wand check quite as amusing as you do.”

“I don’t think they’re that amusing."

Draco waved off the comment. “Well, I suppose I owe you a debt of gratitude for defending my honor then, don’t I?”

“You really don’t.”

“Fine, then we’ll just say we’re celebrating Briggs finally getting the fistful she deserved.”

Harry just sighed and leaned heavily against the counter.

“Come out with me, Harry. It will be fun.”

Harry took a deep breath. “All right. Fine.”

Draco practically leapt to his feet with glee. There was something particularly satisfying about Harry giving into him. It was even better than beating him in a duel. Better than Quidditch. Better than a chocolate éclair.

“Now you’re getting it, Potter.”

And then, Draco had a brilliant idea. Maybe one of his best ever.

“I know just the place,” he said. “But you’re going to have to change.”

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

Draco did his best to look put-upon as he took in Harry’s heavy work boots, his jeans with the hole in one knee, the hooded jumper with the zipper and the ridiculous pouch. On anyone else, it would have looked hideous and sloppy and Draco would not have found his mouth watering at the thought of burying his face into the threadbare fabric. But of course, this was Harry and Draco fancied him something fierce. He was pretty sure he’d think Potter was fit wearing a bin bag and a set of wooden clogs, but Harry didn’t need to know that.

“God, everything, Potter. I don’t even know where to begin.”

Harry frowned and crossed his arms over his chest, which didn’t bode well for Draco. Draco wanted him pliant and willing, the way he got when he was relaxed and happy and just a little bit drunk. But Draco was also selfish and would have given his right arm to see Harry in something other than wrinkled cotton.

“Where do you keep your wardrobe, Potter? I do believe you are going to need an intervention.”

“I’m not going to let you dress me.”

“Oh for goodness sake,” Draco said, throwing up his hands. “You’ll trust me to help you buy a _house,_ but not select something suitably adult for you to wear in public?”

“Seems that way.”

“Harry,” he leveled. “Just let me do this. I’ll buy all your drinks. You can order top-shelf scotch all night if you like.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “Oban? Eighteen year?”

“I’ll buy you your own bottle.”

Harry sighed and rolled his eyes and Draco knew he’d won, even before Harry grunted, “Fine. Clothes are in a box in the upstairs bedroom.”

Draco clapped his hands once and marched up the stairs to the bedroom.

He hadn’t been in Harry’s room since they’d toured the house. There wasn’t any real furniture in the room, besides a simple bed with a dark wood frame and a few boxes with their lids open wide. Draco felt his heart stutter just a little at the tangle of clean, white sheets on the bed, the fluffy down duvet, the two pillows, one of which still held the indentation from Harry’s head. He hadn’t realized Harry was already sleeping there, though perhaps he should have. It really was a nice room. He thought he’d even prefer it to the master bedroom in Blaise’s penthouse.

“Over there.” Harry pointed to the stack of boxes and Draco realized he’d been standing frozen in the doorway.

He shook himself from his daydreams and began digging through the contents of the nearest box.

“Jeans, jeans, t-shirt, t-shirt,” Draco muttered. “Merlin, Potter, don’t you own anything besides jeans and t-shirts?”

Harry shrugged and came up beside him and pulled a thick woolen jumper with a large H knitted into the front. He held it up to his chest with a waggle of his eyebrows.

“Oh, gracious no,” Draco gasped and tugged it from Harry’s hands. “If you have any love for that hideous thing, do not leave me alone with it because I promise you, I will _incendio_ it so fast you won’t even have time to blink.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” Harry said with a smirk.

“I most certainly would. And I’d call it a service to mankind.” He gave the box of clothes one last cursory look before giving it a little kick. “None of this will do, Potter. I’m afraid we’re going to have to take drastic measures. Give me your hand.”

Harry’s expression turned instantly wary. “If you apparate me to Harrods, I’ll hex you.”

“Oh no, I have a _much_ better idea.”

Harry tentatively took Draco’s outstretched hand and Draco apparated them directly into Blaise’s foyer.

Harry frowned, but Draco didn’t drop his hand, instead gripped it tighter and dragged him towards the bedroom. 

“Come along, Potter.”

Draco would be the first to admit that he had a taste for the finer things. He loved designer clothes in luxe fabrics, the feel of Italian leather shoes, silk pants, expensive watches and jewelry. But he didn’t even hold a wand to Blaise Zabini. Even when they were in school, Blaise had a reputation for being an unrepentant clothes horse. In fact, half of Blaise’s flat was one giant closet to house row after row of designer shirts, trousers, suits, and robes.

Blaise was a smidge taller than Harry, and a bit longer in the legs, but they shared the same broad shoulders and trim waist and lucky for Harry, Draco was crack with a tailoring charm.

Draco reluctantly dropped Harry’s hand to flip through hangers of dark coloured shirts

“What are you doing?” Harry asked warily.

Draco rolled his eyes at him. “Finding you something to wear, obviously.”

“Something of Zabini’s?”

“Blaise may be a toff bastard, but he has excellent taste in clothing.”

“I’m going to look like a right wanker in one of these silky purple things,” Harry said, plucking at the sleeve of a Gucci sport coat.

Draco hummed. “Aubergine would look fabulous on you. But believe it or not, I’m not actually trying to torture you. We’ll find you something suitably boring.”

“Are you sure I can’t just wear what I’ve got on?” Harry tried.

“Quite.”

Harry harrumphed and dropped down onto Blaise’s bed. Draco actively did _not_ look at him because if he did, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from climbing on top of him and snogging him silly.

Instead, Draco tossed a Versace brushed silk button-down in a rich maroon, a Saint Laurent with a crisp white collar and French cuffs, and a black Tom Ford with mother of pearl buttons onto the bed beside Harry.

Harry carried on scowling with his arms folded as Draco held up each of his selections to Harry’s chest. He immediately nixed the black.

“Too severe. And your face isn’t helping, you know,” Draco scolded.

He held up the Versace, but Harry gave a curt shake of his head.

“Mmm, you’re right. You’ve worn enough scarlet for a lifetime,” Draco said with a wince.

The white was striking against Harry skin, as was the Lanvin with cloud-gray pinstriping, but at the last moment, Draco snagged a Prada in a deep green with a subtle brocade pattern and the softest sheen.

He held it up and smiled. “Put this one on.”

Harry gave Draco a hard look. “Seriously?”

“Oh, sue me. It isn’t my fault you look smashing in my favourite color.”

Harry sighed and yanked his sweatshirt over his head, mussing his hair and exposing so much skin so quickly that Draco nearly fainted.

When he had it buttoned all the way up to his chin, he turned to Draco with his arms open and his palms up. “Okay? Can we go?”

Draco knew his face had gone all moony and soft, but he really couldn’t help himself. He stepped up to Harry and ran a hand across the seams at his shoulders and down his sides – not strictly necessary, but he took his chances when he got them. He muttered a couple of quick tailoring charms to shorten the hems at Harry’s wrists and waist, but truly, the shirt looked better on him than it ever had on Blaise.

“Merlin, Potter, you should have been a Slytherin,” he said.

The fabric strained across his chest as Harry resumed his cross-armed strop.

Draco hooked his index finger beneath the top button, popping it open, followed by the next, exposing the golden skin at Harry’s throat. He watched as Harry’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.

“Don’t get so buttoned-up, Potter. We’re going for a drink, not to the Wizengamot.”

“Right,” Harry said, his voice too low, too rough. “You’ve had your fun. Can we go now?”

Draco tilted his head to one side, admiring his handiwork for just a moment, then disappeared back into Blaise’s closet. He snagged a pair of charcoal coloured trousers from a hanger and threw them at Harry.

“Put those on and then yes, we can go.”

And Potter, the absolute bastard, started unbuttoning his jeans right there, as if Draco wasn’t already moments from a heart attack.

“I’ll just give you some privacy then?” he choked and staggered toward the living room.

He thought he heard Harry chuckle behind him, but it may have been his imagination.

Harry emerged a few moments later and although he was decked head to foot in Blaise’s clothes, he didn’t look a thing like the man. Blaise was slick and handsome, and he selected his clothes because he knew exactly how they complimented him. Harry wore clothes carelessly, like an afterthought, the epitome of ‘oh this old thing? Just something I threw on.’ And holy hell did it work for him. Draco didn’t even bother trying to get Harry into different shoes and left him with his heavy boots. He thought them rather sexy anyway.

As they headed toward the lift, Draco shot one last tailoring charm at Harry’s trousers. Harry yelped as the fabric constricted around his thighs and arse and Draco didn’t even try to stifle his laugh.

  
  
  



	13. In which Draco is a bit mad, and Harry is a bit gay, but at least there’s tequila!

Crush was dark and smoky. Draco could feel the bass from the sound system in his guts as soon as he walked through the door. The last time Draco had been there had been a weeknight – all smooth jazz, martinis, and covert looks from across the room. But this was a Saturday and Saturdays were for shots, dancing, and climbing into bed with a stranger and everyone knew it.

Draco felt Harry watching him out the corner of his eye as Draco led them to a booth in the back corner.

Harry continued to scan the room with narrowed eyes while Draco waved over a waitress. He ordered a gin and tonic for himself, top-shelf scotch for Harry, and handed the waitress a matte black credit card he’d stolen from Blaise’s desk drawer.

Draco watched as Harry shifted in his seat, unwilling to make eye contact.

“Something wrong, Harry?”

“Nope,” he replied too quickly. “Everything’s good.”

“Then why do you look like you’ve sat on a blast-ended skrewt?”

Harry glared at him and Draco smiled sweetly in response.

“You brought me to a gay bar.”

Draco arched a brow. “Scandalous, isn’t it?”

“No-o,” Harry said slowly, still scanning the room.

“Is it the Muggle part then?”

Harry snorted. “No, I think I’m weirdly getting used to you knowing all the Muggle things by now.”

Harry shifted in his seat again. Men were looking at them. Looking at _Harry_. And how could they not? He was bloody gorgeous and looked so helplessly out of his depth. If Draco weren’t sitting there with a haughty glare and prepared to snarl at anyone who approached, they’d already be descending on him. Bloody vultures.

“Why did you bring me here?” Harry asked.

And oh. It was just too sweet. Too pathetic. “I don’t know, Harry. Why don’t you tell me why you think I brought you here?”

“Because you want to make me uncomfortable,” he said.

Draco dipped his chin. “Not exactly.”

The waitress returned with their drinks and Harry took a long sip.

“You sure about that?” he asked incredulously.

Draco chuckled. “As enjoyable as it is to watch you suffer, no. I brought you here because I think you need to loosen up.”

“And you think _this_ is the sort of place I’ll do it?”

“Maybe.”

“Then you don’t know me at all.”

Draco sat back, only mildly affronted. He had expected Harry to push back, he was prepared for it.

“Don’t I? I’ll admit, the clothes, the atmosphere, that part was for me. I’m selfish that way. But the rest? I think you need it.”

Harry’s responding chuckle surprised Draco. “Oh, I see. You think I’ve never been to a gay bar before.”

“Have you?”

Harry just smiled. “I know you think I’m an idiot, that I just stumble through everything completely unawares.”

Draco shrugged one shoulder, because yeah. He kind of did.

“I’ve been to a gay bar before,” Harry said, offering no further explanation.

“I’m shocked. And here I was thinking I’d shoved you violently out of the closet.”

“I’m not gay.”

“But you go to gay bars.”

“I said I’d _been_ to one before, not that I go to them all the time.”

“And what, pray tell, were you doing in a gay bar the last time? Besides being not-gay, of course.”

Harry broke eye contact and focused on the single melting ice cube in his drink, which was, in Draco’s opinion, a waste of good scotch.

“That’s none of your business,” Harry said.

“And yet, I find myself desperately wanting an answer regardless.”

“Well, we can’t always get what we want.”

“Doesn’t mean it isn’t worth trying,” Draco replied with a wink.

Harry didn’t respond, just hummed noncommittally and turned his attention to the room around them. Draco found it so easy to forget that the world beyond their table even existed. Harry had that sort of effect on him; it was as if everything outside their little bubble just melted away to nothing.

“You know what this looks like, don’t you?” Harry asked.

“Hm?”

“Us. Sitting here. You know what it looks like?”

“What does it look like, Harry?”

“Looks a bit like a date.”

Draco clucked. “Oh, come now. If I asked you on a date, you’d know it.”

“Exactly.” Harry shot Draco a pointed look.

Draco couldn’t suppress his smirk. Harry was right, it did look a bit like a date, exactly as Draco had planned it.

“And why can’t we just be two blokes sharing a drink in a bar?” Draco asked.

“Is that what we’re doing?”

Draco licked his lips and smiled. “Of course.”

“And that’s all it is?"

“It can be more, if you want it to be,” Draco said, carefully. It was always a gamble, every time he tried to coax Harry beyond their tentative friendship. All he ever wanted to hear was _yes._

Harry sighed, slumping into the leather booth, visibly deflating, which was not exactly the response Draco was hoping for.

“I don’t think I have any idea what I want anymore,” Harry said, tugging at his hair.

Draco took pity on him. Lovely as he was, Draco wasn’t so blind as to miss the lost sort of way Harry bobbed through life, the volatile outbursts, the abrupt push and pull between the two of them as Harry warred with something inside of him.

Draco leaned back in his seat and tossed a hand over the back of the booth, just inches from Harry’s shoulder, but not touching him.

“Don’t worry about it so much,” he said. “It’s just a few drinks in the city on a Saturday night. I’m sure you do that sort of thing with your mates all the time.”

“Well, yeah. But we aren’t really mates, are we.” It wasn’t a question, the way Harry said it.

“We aren’t _not_ mates,” Draco offered.

Harry rolled his eyes.

“Listen,” Draco said, letting the tips of his fingers brush over Harry’s shoulder, a comforting touch. “Don’t make any decisions tonight. You don’t have to. No one expects you to. For once, Harry, just live. And see what happens.”

Harry looked right at him, the deep green of his eyes glinting in the low light. “And that’s how you do it? You just ‘see what happens?’”

Draco chuckled, low and warm. “Gods no. But I’m willing to give it a try.”

“Okay,” Harry exhaled. “So, what now?”

“Now?” Draco reluctantly dragged his arm away from Harry and pulled a cigarette out of his pocket. He lit it with a lighter, inhaled deeply, and then released the smoke from his lungs. “Now we drink excessively, charge it to Blaise’s credit card, and look bloody fantastic while we do it.”

A reluctant grin cracked over Harry’s face and Draco’s stomach flipped in response. He didn’t think he’d ever get tired of making Harry smile and deigned to do so at every possible opportunity.

“Yeah, all right,” Harry said and lifted his glass of scotch. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” Draco said, leaning in closer than was entirely necessary and gently clinking his glass against Harry’s.

****

“And you’re telling me, you and Weasley broke into our common room, Polyjuiced as Vince and Greg, while Granger hid in the loo with whiskers and fleas, and attempted to _trick me_ into incriminating myself?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying, yes.” Harry was grinning with too many teeth and he was looking at Draco a bit blearily through smudged spectacles.

A disbelieving laugh burst from Draco’s chest.

“You, Harry Potter, are an utter hypocrite!” Draco said, pointing at Harry with the lit end of a cigarette. “How you ended up working in Magical Law Enforcement is probably the biggest oversight in Ministry history. If I’d only known back then.”

“You would have turned me in.”

“You’re bloody right, I would have! It is totally unfair the things you lot got away with. And you’re an absolute idiot for telling me this! What’s wrong with you? Honestly.”

Harry reached forward and plucked the cigarette from Draco’s fingers and took a drag.

“Don’t smoke, Potter. It’s bad for you.”

“You smoke,” Harry said from behind a cloud of tobacco.

“I do all sorts of bad things.”

“Well, so do I.”

“Yes, but you shouldn’t.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “That seems like a double standard.”

“It is, but people expect it of me. If I were to suddenly start rescuing kneazles from trees or volunteering with underprivileged squibs, people would think I was up to something.”

“ _I’d_ think you were up to something.”

“See? You just made my point. I can and will do bad things because that’s what people want from me. And also, it makes me seem dangerous and devilishly attractive,” he said with a smirk and a wink.

“Debatable,” Harry deadpanned.

“But, you see, if _you_ start doing bad things, people will start questioning everything. They’ll be all, ‘oh my word, Harry Potter’s gone to the dark side, maybe everything I’ve ever known is a lie. Maybe law and order and Merlin himself are all just figments of the collective imagination and the only real way to live is total anarchy. Fuck it all, perhaps I’ll just chuck my morals off London bridge and begin a life of crime and depravity.’”

“That seems like a bit of an overreaction.”

“It’s the power you wield, Harry. The world needs you to be their saviour because without you, they might start to realize that everyone is actually shit, and ‘goodness’ is just a construct used to keep us all in line.”

“And that’s what you think?”

“That’s what I _know_. But that’s because I have the luxury of knowing that you aren’t actually as perfect as everyone pretends you are.”

Potter tilted his head and smiled softly. “I find that oddly comforting.”

“I bet you do. I told you, Harry, there’s no need to pretend to be anyone other than the pathetic, loathsome git that you truly are when around me. You couldn’t convince me otherwise if you tried.”

“Then I guess you don’t have to pretend to be the cold, cruel arsehole you pretend to be when you’re around me.”

“I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about. I am entirely myself,” Draco exclaimed, scandalized.

“I don’t know. I think you might actually be a human being. With _feelings_. Somewhere down there. Deep down. Very deep.”

“You shut your filthy mouth, Potter! I can’t have anyone overhearing you say shite like that. It’ll ruin my reputation!”

Harry chuckled. “I’m serious, you know. I don’t think you’re all that bad. I think you’re pretending. Using it as a defense mechanism.”

“A defense mechanism? Merlin, Potter. You and my Mind Healer ought to get together and swap ideas.”

Harry paused. “Do you really have a Mind Healer?”

“Of course I do. I shared a house with the Dark Lord, for fucks sake. I have _issues_. Of course I have a bloody Mind Healer. Else I’d have been locked in a padded room in the Janus Thickey ward years ago. Or dead. Probably dead.”

Potter looked surprised.

“Are you saying you _don’t_ have a Mind Healer, Potter?”

Harry shrugged. “I talked to someone for a little while. After the war. It helped, I guess. A bit. I just didn’t expect you to have one.”

“You’re just learning something new every day, aren’t you? How novel that must be,” Draco said.

Harry glowered at him

“Look at all we’ve learned today, Harry. That I’m a bit mad, you’re a bit gay –”

“Bisexual,” Harry corrected with a resolute nod.

Draco licked his lips to tamp down on his grin. “ _Bisexual_. Just think what we’ll learn tomorrow!”

Harry shook his head, but he was still smiling.

“How I love our little talks, Potter. Truly enlightening.”

“They are, aren’t they.”

Draco just hummed. Harry’s smile was a little crooked and clearly soaked in scotch, but it was also soft and sweet, and Draco was completely besotted. Of course, it was at that exact moment that Draco was caught grinning dreamily at Harry by an entirely unwelcome visitor.

“Well, Draco. Fancy seeing you here.”

Draco’s attention was viciously ripped away from Harry to find Jeremy standing there, looking drunk and wobbly, with another young man — short, slender, and golden-haired — who looked painfully uncomfortable.

“Jason,” Draco sneered. “What a _pleasant_ surprise. I’m so _thrilled_ you came over here to chat with me. What a _delight_.”

Jeremy rolled his eyes, then turned his attention to Harry and held out his hand. “Jeremy, actually.”

“Harry,” he said and shook Jeremy’s hand with a tight smile.

“Draco and I met here a few weeks back, didn’t we, Draco?”

“Yes,” Draco grumbled. “An interaction I'm sorely regretting right about now.”

“That’s...nice,” Harry said politely.

Draco watched with incredible discomfort as realization dawned on Jeremy’s stupid, smug face. “ _Harry_. You’re him, aren’t you? Is this him? The copper? It must be, just look at him!”

Harry turned to Draco, confused.

“Run along, Jeffrey. Can’t you see we’re in the middle of a conversation?”

“This one’s a bit obsessed with you, did you know?” Jeremy carried on, much to Draco’s frustration.

The golden-haired boy (because he was a boy, really), looked alarmed and tugged on Jeremy’s arm, only to be swatted away like a fly.

“I beg your pardon?” Harry asked, bewildered.

“Talked about you like he might want to slug you. Or fuck you. Maybe both.”

Draco sighed and dropped his head into his hands.

“Bit awkward that he didn’t wait until I put my dick away, but he’s not really the politest one, is he?”

“ _Jeremy!”_ Draco and the blonde boy said in unison.

Potter’s face went from confused to alarmed very rapidly.

“Well, this has been...illuminating,” Draco said, stubbing out his cigarette and draining his gin. “But, fortunately, Harry and I have somewhere else to be, which is...over there. Somewhere. Away from you. Goodbye. Have a nice evening.” He grabbed Potter by the shirtsleeve and dragged him across the room toward the bar, where he promptly ordered two shots of tequila. The Americans always drank tequila when things went to hell and that particular moment seemed as apt as any.

“You talked about me to that bloke?”

Draco slammed the shot of tequila down in front of Harry.

“I may have mentioned you.” He sprinkled salt on his hand, licked it, and threw back the tequila. He bit the pulp from the lime perched on the rim and dropped it into the shot glass.

“In _bed?”_ Harry asked.

Draco pushed the shot at him, which Harry took reluctantly into his hand but did not drink.

“Well, I was in the process of kicking him _out_ of bed, but yes. Perhaps. It’s all a bit blurry, to be honest.” It wasn’t. At all. Draco remembered the conversation perfectly. But Harry didn’t need to know that.

Harry blinked rapidly.

“Why?” he asked.

“Why was I kicking him out? Because he talks incessantly, as you might have noticed! Terribly obnoxious.”

“No, why were you talking about me?”

“Oh, didn’t you know? I like to talk about my childhood nemesis with all my one-night stands.”

Harry’s expression went darker than a storm cloud and Draco wasn’t sure who Harry wanted to deck more, himself or Jeremy. Perhaps both?

“Oh, all right. I was perhaps the tiniest, eensy-weensy bit miffed at you at the time. You had just arrested me and stuck me with what you must realize is an unreasonably long sentence over a misdemeanor. I hadn’t seen you in years and years, and in case you weren’t aware of it, Harry, you’ve gotten rather good looking and I think that pissed me off more than anything. Because, honestly, how fucking dare you? How dare you walk around looking the way you do with the _scowling_ and being authoritative with your ridiculous wandless magic and stupid sex hair. It’s entirely unfair and you’re making us all look bad.”

Harry’s frown began to morph from irritation to confusion to something that looked almost like amusement, but Draco barreled ahead without bothering to examine it further.

“What’s the big deal? Was it rude and a bit improper? Sure. But it isn’t like I ever expected to see him again. And I certainly didn’t expect him to see you. And anyways, if I had _known_ he was going to come waltzing up completely sloshed I would have obliviated the poor bastard. I can count on one hand the number of times this sort of thing has happened to me and truthfully, Harry, it is just _so fucking predictable_ because I swear the world just wants you to carry on thinking I’m a twat, which, we can both agree, is somewhat accurate but you yourself think I might have redeeming qualities, just as I’ve learned that your particular twattishness might be somewhat overshadowed by...well...something else. Not niceness, exactly, but something like that. And what’s more-”

“Stop!” Harry said, holding up the hand that wasn’t holding his tequila. “Just, stop. You’re giving me whiplash. I’m never sure whether you’re complimenting me or insulting me.”

Draco scoffed. “I’m proud to say I’ve never complimented you once in my entire life. Can’t have your head growing any bigger than it already is.”

“Yeah, I’m not entirely sure that’s true. But it doesn’t matter. Clearly, whatever you said to that bloke left an impression.”

“He’s an idiot, Harry.”

Harry chuckled but it was a bit too dry. “You’re the one who slept with him.”

“Yes, well, I seem to have a habit of finding idiots attractive. Add it to the list of things for the Mind Healer to parcel out. Shall I give you her address and you can owl over your findings?”

“No, you’re alright,” Harry said, but at least he was back to smiling in that crooked, fond way that Draco was becoming a bit addicted to.

Harry held up his shot of tequila, waved it at Draco, and threw it back with a wince and a shiver.

“What now? It looks like Jeremy and his friend have stolen our table. Do you think that was the goal the entire time?”

“No, I’m fairly certain total humiliation was the aim, but the table was probably a bonus.” Draco gestured at the bartender again, who delivered two more shots of tequila.

“Are you trying to kill me?” Harry asked, looking at the shot glass like a venomous snake about to attack.

“Not everyone is trying to kill you, Harry. Just most people.” Draco said. “I, on the other hand, am trying to get you drunk enough so that when I ask you to dance, you’ll say yes.”

“I don’t dance.”

“Everyone dances. And I have personally seen you dance on more than one occasion now.”

“More than once?”

“First time was the Yule Ball.”

Harry grimaced.

“You are quite right to be embarrassed by that. That was truly painful to watch. And that poor girl. She was probably traumatized,” Draco said with a sad shake of his head.

“I was traumatized.”

“We all were, Harry. But then, of course, I saw you dance to A-Ha only a few weeks ago. On Blaise’s four-thousand-pound sofa, I might add, but I think we can all agree it was dancing just the same.”

Harry flushed again. “That was alcohol-induced.”

Draco quirked one eyebrow at Harry. “My point exactly. Drink up, Potter, because if you don’t dance with me, someone else will.”

Harry huffed, but drank his tequila with barely a shudder and held out his hand. “All right. Let’s get this over with.”

Draco had to use every ounce of his very small amount of remaining willpower not to grin like an idiot. He drank his tequila and followed Harry, hand in hand, onto the dance floor.

  
  
  



	14. In which Harry wins by losing and Draco gets wet.

Harry’s head was swimming. He knew the tequila shots were a bad idea, but somehow couldn’t find it in himself to care. He hated to admit it, but Malfoy was right about one thing – tonight, he would just live. It was exactly what Ginny told him to do, wasn’t it? And now Malfoy, of all people, was practically absolving him of any responsibility. No decisions tonight, he’d said. Maybe it was the scotch, or the tequila, or the way Malfoy smelled up close – but for once, Harry agreed to go with the flow.

It was a novel feeling, really. He wasn’t sure he’d ever truly felt it before that moment. He supposed it was sort of pathetic that it took the permission of his ex-girlfriend and his ex-rival, combined with the threat of getting sacked, for Harry to finally let go, if only for one night.

Harry wasn’t one for clubs or dancing, but there was something about the lights, the smell of liquor, the pumping bass that you could feel in your chest that almost made dancing inevitable. Harry was holding Malfoy’s hand and leading him into a heaving throng of bodies. He didn’t have any clue where he was going, he just knew he didn’t want to be on the edge, exposed to anyone watching from the sidelines, judging. He wanted to be deep in the crowd, where everyone was so consumed by the sensation of the body next to them that they wouldn’t even bother to open their eyes.

So, that was what Harry did – he closed his eyes.

He felt an arm snake around his waist, a warm breath against the place where his shoulder met his neck. He felt the body pressed against his shift and move to the pulsing beat. He still felt self-conscious, never knowing what to do with his arms or how much he should move his feet, but he let the swaying crowd around him guide his movements; he let the liquor burning through his veins release the tension in his muscles.

Harry didn’t need to open his eyes to know that it was Malfoy pressed against him. He knew him by his scent alone these days – that fresh-squeezed citrus and warm sugar smell of him, just tinged with something sharp, something spicy, something that was almost too heady. It was fucking intoxicating. Harry had learned to avoid confined spaces with Malfoy because of it. It made him dizzy and he wanted to bury his nose in it and breathe it in until his head swam. And on that night, Harry indulged the urge.

He felt Malfoy's sharp intake of breath as Harry sunk into him, surrendering his weight as they moved. They were pressed chest to chest and Harry sighed as the fingers of Malfoy’s hand threaded through the hair at the nape of his neck. It felt so fucking good, just to be touched. And he’d always gone a bit weak in the knees over fingers in his hair. 

He wondered, not for the first time, what it would feel like if he turned his head just a few degrees to the side and pressed his lips against Malfoy’s. What would he taste like? Would it be sweet? Spicy? Or just liquor-soaked? Would his mouth be warm or cold? Would it be withheld?

No, there was no way Malfoy would push him away – not now that Harry could feel the hardness pressed up against his thigh, the shortness of Malfoy’s breath against his neck. But would he push it? If Harry gave him the opportunity, would he take it? He had to find out.

Harry dragged the tip of his nose up the side of Malfoy’s neck, resting just beneath the shell of his ear. He pulled back, not far, just enough to create a bubble of space between them, a hairsbreadth between their lips. Harry knew he shouldn’t, but he dared a glance at Malfoy’s face.

Malfoy’s eyes were shut, a delicate fan of pale lashes splayed beneath them tinged blue, then gold, then magenta in the strobing club lights. There was a fine sheen of sweat across his forehead and a crease between his brows, just barely obscured by the tumble of loose blonde hair that fell over his face. His bottom lip was caught between straight, white teeth and Harry thought he might want to run his thumb across those lips. He might want to see what they would look like pursed around it, full and pink and wet.

Harry must have made a sound because Malfoy’s eyes flickered open, pinning Harry with his silver gaze. First, they stared into his own, startled, then grew dark and knowing, before fluttering down to look at his lips, to take in the scant space between them. Malfoy’s lips curled at the corners, released from between his teeth.

They were so close. Harry could almost taste the tequila, lime, cigarette smoke of him on his tongue. His hands moved of their own volition, first curling their way around Malfoy’s hips, up his back, and over his shoulder blades.

The fingers still twined in Harry’s hair suddenly tightened. Harry gasped at the sharp ache against his scalp.

“Don’t start games you don’t intend to finish, Harry,” Malfoy murmured.

“I don’t play games,” Harry said, his voice low and gruff, barely audible over the music.

“Don’t you? I think you do. I think you’ve been playing games with me since day one.”

Harry wanted to shake his head no, to deny whatever it was that Malfoy was claiming, but the grip on his hair was too tight, too deliciously unyielding.

Malfoy’s lips pressed against Harry’s ear, speaking directly into it, and Harry shivered. “But that’s okay, darling. I like games. Especially those I know I can _win._ ”

Malfoy’s sharp teeth clamped down on his earlobe and it was like a bolt of lightning shooting through Harry’s nervous system. He gasped, and then groaned, unable to help himself.

If Malfoy hadn’t maintained his firm grip on Harry’s hair, he would have turned his head and kissed him, kissed him so hard he saw stars. He would have kissed him right there in that mass of Muggles because there was nothing in the world that mattered more, in that moment, than knowing what it felt like to kiss Draco Malfoy.

Malfoy twisted in Harry’s grip, turning so his arse was pressed against Harry’s front and Harry’s arm was curled around the firm planes of his stomach. Malfoy was just taller than him and Harry rested his chin against the dip in his shoulder, pressed his nose against his neck, once again inhaling the scent of him until he was drunk on it.

There was no hiding how achingly hard Harry was now, but rather than pull from it, Malfoy practically pushed back against him, grinding into him. Harry thanked Merlin and God and whoever else was listening for the scotch and tequila, or else he may have come in his pants from that alone.

The thing was, it had been _so long_ since Harry had wanted someone – wanted someone so much it made him dizzy. Harry was far from celibate. There had been numerous aborted one night stands that always ended in Harry awkwardly kicking the girl or the bloke out the second he got off because he just couldn’t stand the sight of them for one more moment. He hated that vulnerable moment right after he came, when the adrenaline wore off and they were back to being two awkward, hulking bodies sharing sweat and spit. It made him sick to his stomach. For Harry, it had been ages since sex was anything more than an alcohol and loneliness induced mistake made just after last call, the moment when Harry would realize all his friends had someone to go home to but him. 

This was nothing like that. No one had ever teased him like this, had ever gotten into his head and under his skin in that way that made you think about another person every five seconds. And the fact that it lingered in limbo, just flirtation disguised as bickering, a few insinuations and innuendoes, well, it made Harry a little bit mad. 

It was just that no one really said _no_ to him. Harry's bedfellows were usually all too eager to get between the sheets, always ready to follow Harry back to his house or the loo at the back or the pub, and give him exactly what he needed when he needed it. 

But this thing with Malfoy didn’t feel like ‘no.’. It felt like 'later,' like 'be patient,' like 'just wait.' And it made Harry _want._

Harry knew he shouldn’t want Malfoy the way he did. Not because Malfoy was a man, but because he was _Draco Malfoy_. Because he was Harry's parolee, his ward, his boyhood nemesis. Because Malfoy took home blokes from bars and fucked them and then forgot their names. There were a million and one reasons why Harry _shouldn’t_ want him, but that didn’t change the way he did. 

One song bled into another as they danced. If you could call it dancing. It felt more like fucking. Hell, It felt more like making love than fucking usually did. It may have been twenty minutes; it may have been three hours, but eventually, Malfoy pulled away from him. He nodded with a jerk of his head toward the bar and Harry let himself be drawn from the crowd. 

The humidity dropped the second they left the heaving press of bodies. Malfoy pressed a cold glass of water into Harry’s hand and spoke into his ear. 

"Drink this. I'm going to take a slash."

Harry drank the water in a few long gulps. The fuzziness in his head eased somewhat but he suddenly felt bereft, a bit lost in the masses without Malfoy as his anchor. 

But then he was back, one hand curled around Harry's hip, shouting something to the bartender, then tugging Harry by one hand to a table towards the back. 

Harry sunk into the leather booth, though not the same one as before, with a sigh. Malfoy was watching him, his lips curled in a smug little smile. 

"What?" Harry said. 

"You're a lightweight, Potter."

"I _told_ you that."

"Well, now I believe you." He reached out across the table and took Harry's hand in his. He rolled it palm up and pressed his lips against the pad at the base of his thumb, against the curl of his fingertips. 

Harry wanted to ask what he thought he was doing, but instead, he just watched. He watched as Malfoy took the tip of his middle finger and gently bit it between his teeth. 

Harry couldn’t stop himself. His fingers twisted from Malfoy’s hands to grip his chin, holding it firmly. He was going to kiss him. He was going to crawl across that fucking table and stuck his tongue down his throat because he thought he might die if he didn’t. 

Someone to Harry's left cleared their throat and Harry barely suppressed a growl in response. 

"Um, chips?" The bartender said, smirking and placing a platter of malty, hot chips between them. 

Malfoy chuckled and took the receipt from her, signed it hastily, and handed it back without taking his eyes from Harry. 

"You'll thank me for those in the morning," he said, gesturing at the plate of chips. 

Harry had already dug in.

"I'll thank you for these now," he said through a mouthful. 

"Oh yeah? How?" Malfoy asked, his eyes glittering.

"By not vomiting on you"

Malfoy laughed and Harry got that curl of warmth in his gut he often felt when Malfoy laughed without mirth. "Charming as always, Harry."

Harry paused. “You do that a lot.”

“What?”

He dragged a chip through a drop of vinegar. “Say my name. Harry.”

“Are you revoking your permission?”

“No, course not. I just think it’s funny. No, not like funny, but interesting.”

“Making up for lost time, I suppose,” Malfoy said with an elegant shrug. “And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“You don’t say my name at all.”

“Sure I do. Don’t I?” Harry frowned.

“Precisely once. And you were shouting at me.”

Harry smirked. He didn’t exactly remember doing it, but it figured. “Maybe it’s because you have such an odd name. Drrrraco,” he said, rolling his r’s, tasting the strangeness of Malfoy’s given name on his tongue.

Malfoy lifted one brow in response. He leaned forward on his elbows into Harry’s space and tugged gently on a curly bit of hair that had fallen into Harry’s face.

“I’ll get you to say it properly yet, Harry Potter,” he said, and then withdrew back to his side of the table.

Harry stilled with a chip halfway to his mouth.

“The things that come out of your mouth. I swear.” Harry shook his head and resumed eating.

Harry ate most of the chips by himself, although Malfoy would occasionally pluck one from the platter, all the while watching Harry with hooded eyes. 

Eventually, the room stopped spinning and the ache in Harry's stomach eased. He sat back with a sigh. 

"Better?" Malfoy asked with a knowing smirk.

Harry nodded. "Much."

"C’mon then, let's get out of here." He held out his hand. Harry took it and let himself be pulled. 

"Where are we going?" Harry asked belatedly. 

"To mine," Malfoy said as they stepped out into the night. 

The air was hot and heavy and gave little relief after the suffocating heat of Crush. 

Harry thought he should probably argue but decided against it. The truth was, he didn't want to go home yet. His new place was a thousand times better than his old, but it was still empty and Harry didn’t feel like being alone. So, he let Malfoy apparate them back to the penthouse.

Once inside, Malfoy went straight to the record player. He pulled something from its sleeve and placed it under the needle. The gritty baseline and airy vocals cut through the silence as Harry hovered in the sitting room.

To Harry’s dismay, Malfoy snagged a bottle of whisky from the bar cart. He threw a smile over his shoulder and walked out the doors to the patio. Harry followed him like a crup on a leash.

It was a beautiful night and the balcony was swathed in the shifting, ethereal blue glow of the swimming pool. The music floated on the air, just loud enough to hear through the open sitting room windows. Malfoy dropped into a chair at the patio table, set the whisky in front of himself, and gestured for Harry to sit across from him.

Harry wasn’t sure what he expected. The tension between them at the club could have been cut with a knife, but it seemed to have simmered, changed into something less desperate but no less heady.

“I forgot glasses,” Malfoy said, looking at Harry with mischief in his eyes. “Summon me some.”

Harry reached for his wand.

“No wand.”

Harry smirked and snapped his fingers, just for show really, and two crystal tumblers floated from the cupboard and landed on the table between them a little harder than he’d anticipated, but he was drunk and it was the best he could do.

Malfoy’s posture was lazy, almost feline, but the gleam in his eyes was predatory. He reached into the pocket of his trousers and took out a small cardboard box. At first, Harry thought it was cigarettes, but when Malfoy lifted his hand, he realized it was a pack of cards. He flipped open the top of the box and shook loose the cards, shuffling them expertly between two hands.

“Tell me, Potter, do you play poker?”

Harry’s responding laugh was more giggle than anything.

“Oh, no way. We’re not playing poker.”

Draco pouted, his lips pursing into a downturned moue. “Why not?”

“Because!”

“Scared, Potter?”

Harry chuckled. “Maybe a little.”

“Is that because you don’t know how to play? Or because you’re afraid I’ll win.”

“I’m afraid you’ll cheat.”

Draco hummed. “A reasonable concern, I suppose.”

Harry was mesmerized by the movement of Malfoy’s hands as he cut the deck with only two fingers, then flipped the cards between his hands.

He dealt Harry five cards.

“Five Card Draw?” Harry asked.

Malfoy smiled. “Indeed.”

“What are your stakes?”

The smile turned crooked and dangerous. “Your shirt. Well, Blaise’s shirt.”

“You’re joking.”

“That is, unless you win, of course.”

“Then what do I get?”

“Mine,” Malfoy said simply.

Harry huffed out a disbelieving laugh. “You want to play strip poker?”

“I do. Very much.”

“Because you think you can win.”

“I told you, Harry, I only play games I know I can win.”

Something pleasantly hot and liquid settled in Harry’s gut. He took a slow inhale and appraised the man in front of him. Malfoy had gambling charges in a half dozen countries, and that only counted the times he’d been caught. Harry had played a little drunken poker here and there with his mates when wizard chess got old and there were too many players for exploding snap.

Harry knew how to play poker. He wasn’t even all that bad at it, usually able to best Ron eight times out of ten. But Malfoy was a different beast altogether. There was almost no way he’d win. It was just that he didn’t know if he cared. He saw the way Malfoy went pink when he pulled off his shirt to change earlier, he saw the way his eyes turned dark when he’d caught sight of Harry’s embarrassing magazine photos.

There was only one reason that Malfoy wanted to play strip poker, and that was to get Harry naked and to his surprise, Harry found himself more than willing to play along.

“You’re on,” he said and collected his cards from the table and flipped them.

It wasn’t a great hand. A couple of twos. A king.

Malfoy beat him with a pair of jacks and a smirk.

“Well, Potter? Off with it,” he gestured with one elegant wave of his hand.

Harry took his time with it, undoing each button slowly and watching the way Malfoy clocked his every movement with heavy lidded eyes. When he reached the last button, he spread the fabric wide, letting it hang off his shoulders while he undid his cuffs.

When the shirt hit the floor, Harry quirked one brow.

“Well? Deal.”

Malfoy leaned forward on his elbows. He flipped the cards between his hands, spinning each one as he flicked them from the deck until five cards landed in front of each of them, never taking his eyes from Harry’s own.

Harry was pretty sure he could watch Malfoy shuffle cards all day and never get bored. His hands were sure and practiced and Harry felt the sparks of anticipation light within him. 

Harry lost the next hand spectacularly – a queen high against Malfoy’s pair of sevens.

Malfoy’s face was smug as Harry kicked one booted foot onto the table and began undoing the laces.

“Rude, Harry,” Malfoy scoffed, but his lips were twitching at the edges and his molten silver eyes were practically gleaming in the dim lights.

“I didn’t say I’d lose gracefully,” Harry said.

“So, you agree you’re going to lose?”

Harry yanked the boot from his foot and tossed it aside.

“Depends on what you consider losing.”

“If you’re expecting a consolation prize, think again. I am not generous when I win.”

“I wouldn’t know, you’ve never beaten me.”

Malfoy licked his lips and gathered the cards into the deck, shuffling them efficiently. “That’s because I’ve never played you at something I know I’m better at than you.”

“I’m notoriously lucky.”

Malfoy laughed and the sound resonated in Harry’s chest, causing it to bloom and expand with pleasure. “That may be true, but I’m counting on more than luck.”

Harry grinned. It was absurd, these conversations where they circled each other like hungry wolves, never saying what they really meant, waiting to see who would break first. It made him bold and he couldn’t even blame it on the drink anymore. Harry always suffered a streak of arrogant confidence when he met a challenge head-on.

Harry didn’t even try with the next hand. He lost the second boot and gave Malfoy his best shit-eating grin as he wiggled his toes in his socks.

Malfoy was starting to look ruffled. Normally so composed, even when flocking about in nothing but his dressing gown, everything about Malfoy was intentional. But now, the apples of his cheeks burned, and his hair looked wilder than usual, the way it got when he ran his fingers through it too many times. His collar was crumpled from his constant tugging. He’d begun to chew his bottom lip until it was pink and slick and _god,_ Harry thought he might lose his mind.

Instead, he lost his next hand and his left sock.

His next hand was no better.

“I fold,” Malfoy said, dropping his cards face down on the table.

Harry lunged forward and flipped them before Malfoy could stop him to reveal three sixes.

“Now you’re letting me win on purpose?” Harry questioned.

“Let’s call it leveling the playing field. It only seems fair.”

“Since when do you care about what’s fair?”

“Shall I leave it on then?” Draco asked, two long fingers hovering over the button at his chest.

Harry’s mouth went dry. There was already a deep v of flesh visible. Malfoy regularly wore his shirts undone enough to border on indecent and it did horrible-wonderful things to Harry’s already threadbare composure.

“Oh, go on, then,” Harry said. “Fair is fair.”

Harry expected him to make a show of it as he did, but Malfoy shucked his shirt with efficient movements, folding It carefully over the arm of his chair.

Malfoy’s chest was pale and smooth. He was slender but finely muscled and Harry wondered what he was doing to get that definition when all he’d ever seen him do was smoke and drink.

Malfoy managed to lose both his shoes before Harry lost his second sock and his borrowed trousers. This left Harry was sitting there in nothing but his pants watching as Malfoy’s cool composure slipped from threadbare to utterly ragged.

Then Harry lost again.

“That’s the game, Potter. Drop them.” Draco shoved the cards aside, and with a casual touch to his wand where it lay on the table, they sorted themselves into a neat stack.

“And what if I say no?” Harry challenged.

Malfoy placed his palms flat on the table, pushing his chair back as he stood. He leaned across the table toward Harry, lips twisted in a smirk.

“I won, Potter, and I always collect my debts.”

Harry stood. He stepped around the table and took a step toward Malfoy, then another. Malfoy straightened and fell back as Harry crowded him.

“I think you cheated,” Harry said.

“Prove it,” Malfoy said, but he was looking at Harry’s lips.

“Can’t,” Harry admitted.

“Then that only leaves you one choice,” Malfoy said, one eyebrow twitching as his gaze returned to Harry’s own.

Harry hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his boxer briefs.

“I guess you’re right,” he said.

They were standing close together at the edge of the pool. Malfoy would fall in if he fell back one more step. Harry took the advantage and pushed the fabric past his hips, over the jut of his erection and dropped his pants. He kicked them away where they pooled at his ankles.

Malfoy’s eyes moved slowly downward. His smirk grew.

“Oh, Harry.”

Harry had to touch him. He reached out and ran his thumb across the curve of Malfoy’s cheekbone, moved the flat of his palm over his neck, across the planes of his chest. He held it there and felt the rabbit-fast beat of Malfoy’s heart, the short and shallow breaths. He took one step closer until they were mere inches apart.

Harry smiled.

And pushed.

Malfoy’s eyes flashed the second before he went flailing backward into the pool.

He came sputtering to the surface, shoving hair from his eyes and cursing colourfully. Harry tossed his glasses on the table, took a flying leap, and cannon-balled into the pool, soaking Malfoy a second time, along with most of the patio.

  
  
  



	15. In which Draco sees stars and Harry covers him in constellations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to kindly direct your attention to the EXPLICIT rating of this fic. You have been warned.
> 
> Update January 2021: THERE IS ART! Holy sweet mother of god, there is art. My sweet friend Lynn ([ @fictional on tumblr](https://fictional.tumblr.com/) / [milkandhoney on A03](https://archiveofourown.org/users/milkandhoney/pseuds/milkandhoney)) gifted me THE MOST UNBELIEVABLE ART for a scene in this chapter. I'm going to link it in the endnotes to avoid spoilers but I strongly recommend you look at it because *clutches chest* it's good. Like, really good.

“You bastard!” Draco growled. “I’m going to fucking kill you!”

Harry’s dark head broke the surface of the water. He was grinning like an idiot and slicking back wet tendrils of hair. He wasn’t wearing glasses and without the barrier, his eyes looked brighter, greener, framed in spikey black lashes. Oh, and he was completely starkers. There was that.

And Merlin’s tits, arse, beard, and balls, Harry was fucking _gorgeous_ naked. Draco he knew he would be, of course he was. But it was one thousand times better in real life than in the photos, or even in Draco’s rather detailed and explicit daydreams.

Harry’s skin was dark, practically glowing gold in the dim lighting. He was toned and muscled, but not bulky, just as he appeared in the _Witch Weekly_ photo that currently sat on Draco’s nightstand. What they didn’t show in the magazines was the smattering of scars, large and small, that marked his chest and arms. There was hair on his chest and a fine trail beneath his belly button and fucking hell, Draco wanted to _destroy him._ He wanted him so bloody badly it ached. It felt like a punch to the gut and he thought he might double over from it.

Draco was losing his mind having Harry so close and exposed and it was causing his brain to stutter and halt every few seconds. He barely made it through the card game. Even with the aces up his sleeve and that handy disillusionment spell he learned in Tijuana, Draco barely managed to cheat properly. Harry’s proximity was making him stupid.

And now, Harry was wet and glistening and _laughing at him,_ exhibiting such uninhibited delight in soaking Draco like a wet rat. So, Draco did the only thing he could do. He swam right up to Harry Potter, put one hand on his head, and shoved him under the water.

Harry only struggled for a second before he slipped one arm around Draco’s waist, knocking him off balance and dragging him under the surface with him.

They tussled under the water, slick skin against gloriously wet, slick skin. Draco was hard as a rock – completely recovered from Harry’s attempt at drowning him at his most distracted and vulnerable moment. Ruddy heathen.

When they finally tore apart, Harry was laughing loudly with his head thrown back.

“I’m glad you’re amused,” Draco huffed haughtily, though a smile tugged at his lips.

Draco swam to the shallow end of the pool where he could stand, leaning against the edge of the pool, the water lapping at his chest.

“I really am,” Harry said, grinning.

“These trousers are ruined now, you know,” Draco said.

“I’m sure you have a dozen more just like them.”

“I’ll add the cost to your tab then, shall I?”

Harry gestured downwards at…everything.

“I don’t think I have much left to give,” he said.

“I’m sure I could think of _something_ that would satisfy me.”

Draco yanked at the button to his trousers with slippery fingers. He struggled to peel the soaked fabric from his skin. When he finally managed to wiggle his way free, leaving only his pants, he flung the trousers from the water where they landed on the side with a wet slap.

“Alright, name your price then,” Harry said, crossing his arms over his chest.

Draco turned back to Harry, spread his arms across the rim of the pool and assessed him.

It was a blatant and obvious invitation. A test, perhaps. Harry had been offering himself up all evening and Draco was done fighting it. He wasn’t even sure why he bothered in the first place. Maybe he never actually expected Harry to go so willingly. Maybe he didn’t anticipate the way Harry made his heart ache all the time.

He’d been patient enough to earn himself sainthood. And it was time to cash it in.

“I want a kiss,” Draco said.

Harry’s eyes went wide and round.

“Oh,” he said.

“Oh,” Draco said. He quirked one brow and beckoned Harry closer with a curl of his finger.

Harry swam up to him obediently. He stepped in close and placed one hand against the side of Draco’s face, and then the other, cradling Draco’s face between his palms. Draco sucked in a breath and held it in his lungs as Harry moved in close. He couldn’t keep his eyes from fluttering shut when he felt the scratch of Harry’s stubbled cheek against his own, the tip of his nose against his jawline, the drag of his lips just a breath away from where he wanted them.

He was so close, and even with his eyes shut tight, Draco could feel the heat from Harry’s body, hear the deep breaths that filled his chest. He was painfully aware of Harry’s nudity and the unselfconscious way he crowded against him.

Draco felt a bit like he might be unraveling, that if Harry actually kissed him, he would fly apart, would explode into dust and stars. He was certain he’d never felt that way about a kiss in his whole life and he would welcome his destruction if it got Harry to close the inches between them.

“Harry,” he whispered into the breath of air between them. It was barely audible at all, a pathetic little whimper, begging for something. Anything.

The press of Harry’s mouth against his own was soft. Too soft. His lips were wet, and he smelled of chlorine, liquor, and that warm wood and sweet honey scent that made Draco drunk.

The touch lingered, but then Harry was pulling back. His hands slid from Draco’s face and the water eddied around him as he took a half step back.

It was entirely unacceptable.

Draco’s eyes snapped open to see Harry looking stricken and a little lost. He couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t let him pull away now that Draco had finally gotten him close enough to touch and taste. Draco had asked for only one kiss from Harry, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t take his own.

In one abrupt movement, Draco pushed himself from the rim of the pool and lunged at Harry. He plunged his hands into his hair and dragged him close, chest to chest, crashing their mouths together. Harry’s mouth parted under his immediately and Draco groaned. He didn’t release Harry’s hair, but gripped it tighter, tilting his head just so, and pushed his tongue between Harry’s lips, tasting the liquor-soaked sweetness.

Harry’s hands were at his waist, fingers spread wide and bruising. He explored the planes of Draco’s back and the jut of his shoulder bones. Draco was instantly reminded of the way Harry held him when they danced, how Harry’s hands were always moving and gripping flesh. It made heat flare in Draco’s belly, molten and aching.

Harry kissed with the same intensity and singular focus that he did all things. It was exactly as Draco had imagined it would be(and gods, how many times had he imagined this?), but it was also so much more. Harry always managed to surprise him. As much as Draco wanted to plunder Harry’s mouth, to consume him, Harry held him at bay, controlling the kiss, keeping it slow and languid but so deep. He could taste Harry’s smile, feel his pleased growl as much as he heard it.

When Harry’s arms tightened around him and dragged their bodies flush, Draco’s gasp broke their kiss. He could feel the hard length of Harry’s cock pressed against his hip, the flex of his stomach muscles, the drag of Harry’s skin against his own.

Draco struggled to catch his breath as Harry’s kisses trailed down his neck. There was a nip to the flesh of his throat followed by the hot press of tongue. Draco dared to open his eyes. He could only see the top of Harry’s head as he sucked on the hollow of his throat. Steam rose from the surface of the water, obscuring the twinkling lights of the sprawling London skyline in curls of fog.

He flexed his fingers in Harry’s hair, scratching his scalp and tugging at the thick strands. Harry released Draco’s neck from between his teeth with a groan. When he lifted his head and opened his eyes, his lips were slick and red and curled around a smile. Draco felt something in him shatter.

Harry was beautiful. He kissed like a dream and smiled at Draco without a touch of disdain. He couldn’t believe it. He had every intention of drawing Harry into this, to seducing him simply because he could, because he wanted to say he’d done it. But Draco hadn’t prepared for this. He didn’t expect to count down the seconds between their meetings, to survive on just conversation, cups of tea, and shared space for all those weeks.

He didn’t expect kissing Harry to ruin any hope of being kissed properly again.

He marveled as Harry’s eyes glittered and his mouth parted as Draco ran his thumb across the center of his plush bottom lip. He chased the path of his thumb with his lips, softer than before, and Harry kissed him back the same.

Time no longer held any meaning as they kissed. Draco lost himself in Harry’s mouth and the slick slide of their skin in the water. And when the barrier of Draco’s soaked cotton pants became too much to bear, Harry dropped his fingers beneath the waistband. He squeezed Draco’s arse in his wide palms, pressing his grin into Draco’s mouth, his chuckle a half-groan.

And then he was pushing Draco’s pants down his thighs, gently lifting the waistband around his aching cock without even touching him.

That was it.

There was nothing left between them.

Something aching and wild burst free inside Draco. Unable to help himself, he ground himself against Harry. The friction of Harry’s hardness against his own had him gasping into Harry’s mouth. He couldn’t seem to get close enough and he wrapped his thighs around Harry’s hips, his fists still clutching the hair that curled sweetly at the back of Harry’s neck.

He heard Harry curse, tasted it on his tongue.

Draco probably should have felt embarrassed. He knew how he got when he was turned on – wanton and desperate. And this was so far beyond that. But Harry was swallowing every moan and clutching at every inch of skin he could reach.

“Harry – _fuck_ – I need –“ Draco gasped, brokenly.

“Shh. I know.”

Harry’s hand circled his cock and Draco keened, his hips twitching as Harry’s hand moved up and down his erection. Draco’s head fell back, and Harry’s hand tightened around him.

“You should see what you look like right now,” Harry said, his voice low and thick. “So fucking gorgeous. My god.”

“Shut up. Kiss me.”

Harry’s kiss was biting and rough this time, but the movement of his fist over Draco’s cock was too slow, not nearly enough. The heat was pooling low in his groin. Draco wanted to fuck into Harry’s fist, to growl and demand that Harry bring him over the edge because what he was doing was the slowest, most exquisite torture.

Harry must have read the desperation in his kiss, in the pathetic little mewls that were falling from Draco’s lips unbidden.

Harry’s hands gripped the undersides of his thighs hard.

“Up, come on,” he said.

It took Draco a few seconds to even translate that Harry was speaking words to him, but then he was gripping the edge of the pool and Harry was heaving him from the water to sit on the rim.

The night air hitting Draco’s wet skin was a shock, but it was nothing compared to the shock that came when Harry bowed his head into Draco’s lap and curled his tongue around the tip of his aching cock.

“Oh my – fucking hell, _Harry._ ”

Harry’s fingers tightened on the tops of his thighs and Draco spread his legs open wider, leaning back on his hands.

There was no fumbling awkwardness. Harry swallowed him down all at once, the flat of his tongue ran hard and hot down the vein at the underside of Draco’s cock and Draco nearly blacked out.

Draco lifted one hand and combed it through Harry’s hair. He loved the way it felt between his fingertips, thick and soft, curling around his fist. He did it again and felt Harry shiver and groan in response.

“You taste so fucking good,” Harry murmured against the slit of Draco’s cock. The soft movement of his lips made Draco twitch.

Even in all of Draco’s fantasies, Harry had been sweetly unsure, embarrassed by his own desires. But this? This was the cocksucking of someone who loved it, someone who drowned themselves in it. Harry had done this before, and while the thought of Harry touching anyone else ever made Draco burn with jealousy, he couldn’t help but marvel at the unreality that was Harry.

Draco was so fucked. Utterly ruined. No one would ever be able to top this, to be able to take from him this moment on the rooftop over London, watching _Harry bloody Potter_ suck his cock like he’d never had anything better. No one would ever be more beautiful. Draco would never want anyone more than him.

He wanted it to last forever. He wanted as much to hang on the precipice for eternity as he did to fling himself off the cliff and chase his release. The aching burn was growing insistent and he was struggling to stay still, to keep from bucking his hips. And Harry was unrelenting in his ministrations.

“Harry – ah, Harry, I can’t – I’m going to –“ Draco stuttered.

Harry hummed around his cock and Draco’s eyes rolled back in his head.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, just like that. Harry, _yes.”_

Draco couldn’t hold it back any longer. His orgasm crashed over him like a wave, dragging him beneath the surface. He was drowning and it was fantastic. Harry was moaning as he drank him down, his fingers pressing bruises into Draco’s hips.

Draco felt like he was floating. He felt Harry release him gently, felt him smooth his palms up his thighs soothingly.

When Draco opened his eyes, Harry looked wrecked. He looked hungry and desperate and _god._ He was unreal.

Draco tipped forward and held Harry’s face between his hands and kissed him. He tasted himself on his tongue, bitter and a little spicy. It was so bloody sexy and it took everything in him to push Harry away and get to his feet. He held out his hand, twitching his fingers at Harry.

“Come with me.”

Harry heaved himself from the pool and _dear sweet Merlin_ if Draco hadn’t _just_ come. Water cascaded down his chest and over his hard cock. It made Draco’s mouth water.

With a shake of his shaggy head, Harry cast a drying charm and smiled crookedly out at Draco from underneath the halo of fluffy hair.

“My god, you’re like a crup,” Draco said and grabbed Harry by the wrist, dragging him into the flat.

Harry’s hands were everywhere all at once and Draco barely made it through the door before he found himself pushed against the back of the sofa, then a wall. They tripped and stumbled their way to the bedroom. Harry was laughing and nipping kisses into Draco’s shoulder blades and throat and it was _so bloody distracting_ , but Draco was set on getting Harry into bed. There was no way he was going to let this end with nothing more than a bit of frotting up against the nearest piece of furniture. He’d waited too long. Bloody weeks!

Years.

A fucking lifetime.

They stumbled across the threshold and when the backs of Harry’s knees hit the bed, he sunk down. He laved kisses across Draco’s stomach and hips, his hands constantly moving, dragging up the fronts of Draco’s thighs to squeeze his arse and Draco buried a hand in Harry’s hair – threading his fingers through it and tugging lightly, just to hear Harry moan.

“You really are like a crup. Look at you fall to pieces just being petted,” Draco teased.

Harry’s kiss against his hipbone turned sharp and biting and Draco flinched.

“Feels good,” Harry said, his voice like gravel. He pushed into Draco’s hand. “Do it again.”

Draco smirked and sunk his other hand into Harry’s hair and scraped fingers across his scalp. Harry groaned and Draco felt it in his gut, felt his cock twitch. Merlin, he was getting hard again. He trailed his fingers down Harry’s neck and over his chin, tugging him gently away from his ministrations. He wanted to see Harry’s face – wanted to memorize the way his eyes went dark and the way his mouth looked – swollen a spit-slick. Maybe it was masochistic and Draco was clearly in the throes of some sort of existential crisis because in absolutely no version of reality did he ever think he would have this, that he would have Harry Potter growling as he pressed kisses into his flesh like brands.

They were going to fuck. There was no question in Draco’s mind – though that thought in itself nearly sent Draco reeling. Harry must have been aching. His cock was flushed and red and there was something wild and dangerous burning behind his eyes. And yet, his touch remained gentle. Worshipful. It was heady and unbelievable, and Harry was just so bloody gorgeous Draco could hardly believe his luck. But it wasn’t just that. Draco sought out beautiful men. He’d lined his bedpost with notches like trophies. Adding Harry Potter to that list would be unacceptable. He was it. He was everything. He was power and beauty and fucking _redemption_ and Draco was going to fucking destroy him.

For Draco, sex was so often a means to end. He wanted to come, and he wanted someone to make him do it. He could be a selfish lover; he’d be the first to admit. He had no qualms about laying back and letting whomever he’d dragged back to bed worship at his altar until the fog of lust cleared and he could think and see properly again. There would be no such escape tonight. Draco had already come once and all it had managed to do was fan the flames. He wanted more of Harry. He wanted him a hundred different ways. He wanted to wrest every last sound of pleasure from his lips. He wanted Harry inside him, in every sense of the word.

Harry caught one of Draco’s hands in his own and kissed each of his fingertips, sucked them into his mouth, leaving them slick and shining.

“Your fucking hands,” he groaned.

Harry kissed up his wrists to his forearm. His lips skated over the Mark without hesitation to settle in the crook of Draco’s elbow. He tugged gently and Draco fell into him, tipping them backwards until Harry was sprawled out across black silk sheets and Draco was astride him. He shifted his hips, dragging his thickening cock against Harry’s, who positively convulsed, a sharp gasp tearing from his lips.

Draco smirked with satisfaction. He pushed himself up onto one arm and trailed two fingers down Harry’s chest and down over his hip, resting just shy of his aching cock.

“My, Harry, so sensitive.” He skated the tips of those fingers up Harry’s length, a touch so light it was little more than a tickle.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Harry growled, the muscles in his stomach jumping and his fingers flexing on Draco’s hip. “I’ve been hard for hours, what do you expect?”

Draco curled his fist around Harry’s erection and Harry gasped and bucked in response. He watched with hungry eyes as Draco stroked him slowly, his fingertips digging into Draco’s thighs. Draco kept his touch light, teasing, torturous.

“You’re going to fuck me, Harry,” Draco told him

Harry squeezed his eyes shut and took a shuddering breath. “Yes.”

“Have you ever fucked a man before?”

A smile curled Harry’s lips and his eyes fluttered open, pinning Draco in pools of black and green.

“Yes.”

“Good,” Draco said with a nod, though some part of him thought that was very _not good,_ that it was _not good at all_ because if he had things his way, no one should have ever been allowed to touch Harry before him. He should belong only to Draco to tease and fuck and torture and hurt because that was exactly what he wanted. Harry should be his and his alone. “Then I trust you know what to do.”

Harry’s grip on his hips tightened and before he knew what was happening, Harry had scooped him up and flipped him onto his back.

If Draco had enjoyed the view of Harry splayed out beneath him (which he did. He really, _really_ did), well, this was no disappointment. He was caged in the bracket of Harry’s strong arms, pinned by his weight and at his mercy.

“Black silk sheets,” Harry said with a crooked grin and a shake of his curly head. “Unbelievable.”

Draco scoffed as best he could manage. “Don’t blame me for my friend’s tacky taste.”

Harry nipped at his jaw. “Do you know what you look like on black silk sheets? Fucking sinful.”

“Darling, I assure you, I look just as sinful on white cotton,” Draco teased.

Harry’s face did something funny – his brow wrinkling and the heat of his eyes softening just slightly – but then he shook his head and his expression cleared. “Of that I have no doubt,” he said.

Harry kissed his way down Draco’s chest and stomach, leaving sharp love bites as he went that left Draco gasping. Harry was marking him, leaving impressions of his teeth everywhere and Draco marveled at them. Everything about the way Harry handled his body was possessive – from the way he spread his fingers wide across Draco’s hips to hold as much flesh and bone in his palms as possible, to the marks that marred his chest and neck like tattoos of Harry’s desire. Merlin, the way Harry _kissed_ , it was like being consumed. And when Harry settled between his legs, arranged Draco’s knees over his shoulders and sucked his cock into the wet heat of his mouth once again, Draco bloody ascended. He found religion. He met god and gave her a handshake because this man was a fucking _blessing._

One of Harry’s fingers dragged across his hole, already slick and wet. The bastard had used his ridiculous wandless, wordless magic to conjure lube and just the thought of Harry’s magic being used on him, to stretch and fuck him, tore a moan from somewhere deep inside Draco.

Harry’s finger pushed inside Draco’s body in one smooth push. There was no hesitation, no fluttering nervousness, just the confident breaching of his body that left him gasping in the wake of pleasure.

Draco should have known it would be like this. That _Harry_ would be like this. Why he’d ever imagined that Harry would need to be coached and coaxed into sex was unfathomable. This was Harry Potter, the man who wielded magic easier than breathing, who posed for magazines in his pants, who killed dark wizards with second-year spells, who was desired by half the world. Draco hadn’t tricked him into bed. It was foolish to even consider the idea of Harry doing anything he didn’t want to do. And yet, he was here, in bed with Draco, sucking his cock and opening him up with wet, practiced fingers as if the world outside this room didn’t even exist.

Something welled in Draco’s chest that felt a bit like panic. It was too much, seeing Harry like that, to be at his mercy. It didn’t feel like sex with strangers or sex with friends. It felt like more. It felt like sex with Harry bloody Potter, and the weight of all that hate, jealousy, and fucking _history_ just dropped onto Draco’s lungs like a weight, punching the air out of him.

Draco glanced down to see Harry looking up at him, spit-slick lips brushing the inside of Draco’s thigh, a wrinkle between his brows. He could feel the horrible thing expanding in his throat, choking him. Harry’s eyes narrowed just slightly and he nuzzled against Draco’s skin, twisted his fingers just so, and Draco saw _stars_.

“I can feel you thinking, you know,” Harry said into Draco’s skin. “Makes me think I’m not doing a good enough job distracting you.”

Harry’s fingers skated over Draco’s prostate again and Draco thought his soul might have left his body.

“I’m thinking about how I can convince you to quit dithering around and get your cock in me before I die of old age,” Draco said through a clenched jaw.

Harry chuckled. “Maybe this is revenge for the way you teased me all night.”

Draco gasped as Harry pushed a third finger inside of him. He twisted and stretched, and Draco just writhed like a wanton thing. It was terrible and fantastic, and he didn’t know how much longer he couldn’t stand it.

“Enough,” Draco said and grabbed Harry roughly by the hair, dragging him up to meet his lips. They kissed desperately and Draco hooked one ankle around Harry’s hip, twisting and flipping until Harry was on his back again.

Harry laughed into the kiss and Draco swallowed it. Harry tasted like liquor and Draco’s come and fucking magic and Draco wanted him. He wanted him so badly he felt like he might scream, or die, or fucking cry if Harry didn’t fuck him soon.

He pushed up so he was straddling Harry’s hips and took Harry’s cock firmly in one hand, positioning it at his entrance. Harry was big and so fucking hard and even with all of Harry’s careful preparation, it was going to hurt. But Draco wanted it to hurt. He wanted it to split him open and leave him gasping because, truly, he’d expect nothing less from fucking Harry Potter.

“Say it,” Draco gasped.

Harry’s hands tightened on his hips, adding to the constellations of bruises that he’d already left on Draco’s skin. Harry was flushed and his chest was heaving and there was a wildness in his eyes.

“What?”

“My name. Say it.”

Harry huffed a breathless laugh and tried to push up to his elbows, but Draco held him down with a hand against his chest.

“And say it properly.”

Harry bit his lip and grinned. “Draco,” he growled. “Draco, _please_.”

Draco grabbed him by the chin and kissed him, tasting his name on Harry’s lips.

“Good boy,” he said.

He bore down, sucking in a ragged breath when the head of Harry’s cock breached him. It _burned_. It was too much, but Draco didn’t stop. He let himself sink down and down until Harry was buried deep inside him.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Harry gasped. “Oh fuck.”

“Shh,” Draco soothed, smoothing one palm over Harry’s chest. “Don’t move.”

He heard Harry take a deep, shuddering inhale.

Hesitantly, Draco shifted his hips. Harry’s breath left him in woosh, and Draco did it again. He willed his muscles to relax, focusing his attention on the way Harry’s hands ran soothing lines up and down his thighs, the firmness of his strong, warm chest beneath his hands.

He dared to open his eyes. Harry’s expression was crumpled, his eyes squeezed shut and his bottom lip clamped so tight between his teeth it had gone white. His hair was a mess, splayed across the sheets in a halo of raven curls. He was fucking gorgeous and when Draco raised his hips just a fraction to sink back down onto Harry’s cock, his eyes flew open.

“Please, Draco. I have to move. I can’t – please, let me – I need – “ he said through gritted teeth.

And oh god, he was begging. Harry Potter was buried inside Draco’s body and he was _fucking begging_. It was perfect. He was perfect.

Draco nodded. “Move, Harry. It’s okay.” He ran a hand over Harry’s flushed cheek and raised himself up, feeling the drag of Harry’s cock against the inside of his body as he pulled out gently.

Harry drove himself back into Draco’s willing body with a groan, hard and deep. And then again. And again. Draco had his hands in Harry’s hair, gripping it desperately between his fingers, gasping against Harry’s mouth as he fucked him.

Draco was babbling. He would have been embarrassed by it if he’d had the wherewithal to even think about it. But Harry was pounding into him with steady, powerful thrusts and Draco was riding back against him, never able to get deep enough, never able to feel enough of him.

“Yes, _fuck_ , like that, Harry. Just like that. You feel so good,” he whispered against Harry’s lips.

Harry’s hands were on his arse, squeezing, using the leverage to push deeper inside Draco’s body, the deliciously slick drag of skin against skin. His fingers slipped down the crack of Draco’s arse, where they were connected, teasing around Draco’s rim with the tip of one finger.

Draco fucking lost it. He bucked against Harry and let out an embarrassingly animalistic moan, to which Harry responded by fucking him even harder.

“God, the fucking sounds you make,” Harry groaned. “Should have known you’d be a noisy one.”

If Draco had two functioning brain cells left, he might have chided Harry, come up with some catty remark, but all Draco managed to do was growl against Harry’s skin and kiss him. There was no finesse to their kisses anymore, just the desperate movement of tongue and teeth and shared breath.

The grip on Draco’s arse tightened as Harry pulled himself up to a sitting position, Draco in his lap. Draco wrapped his legs around him like a limpet, mouthing at Harry’s jaw. It was difficult for Harry to get proper leverage this way, but his cock was buried so deep in Draco, just dragging inside him with maddening friction, that Draco didn’t even care. Harry had his arms wrapped around Draco’s waist like an embrace as they rocked against each other desperately.

There was an ache building at the base of Draco’s spine and by the way Harry was gritting his teeth, he was feeling it too. He was so close to the edge and Draco wanted nothing more than to watch him tumble over it, to watch Harry come buried deep inside him.

“Harry. Touch me, please,” Draco gasped.

Harry’s eyes on him were fierce as he wrapped one hand around Draco’s erection and began to stoke him in long, steady pulls. He was going to come. He couldn’t stop it now, not with the way the sparks were flying behind his eyelids. With a gasp and a shout, Draco came, clenching around Harry’s cock and spilling himself over Harry’s fingers, their slick drag across Draco’s sensitive flesh warring between intense pleasure and pain. Harry worked him through it until he was shuddering beneath his hands.

And then Draco was on his back and Harry was fucking into him hard and wild. Draco felt like he was floating, the pleasure cresting over and over, lost in an endless fog. Harry’s forehead was pressed against his own and their mouths just inches apart, lips brushing and sharing gasping breaths.

Harry was speaking, though Draco could hardly understand his words, lost in the sensation as he was.

“Fucking incredible. You’re unbelievable. God, going to fill you up and make you mine.”

“Yes, Harry, yours. Come for me. Want to feel it,” Draco nipping along Harry’s jaw, dazed.

Harry tensed, his eyes squeezed shut, and Draco _felt_ it. He fucking felt Harry come, pulsing and flooding his body with liquid heat. Harry was still moving, his hips rolling in languid thrusts as he pumped into Draco, until he was spent. He collapsed against him, a warm and heavy weight on Draco’s chest.

They stayed that way for a few moments, Harry’s face nestled into Draco’s shoulder and Draco carding a hand through his hair. Draco’s thoughts filtered back to him slowly and the room materialized around them, asserting its imposing physicality on Draco’s dreamlike state.

Harry ran the palm of his hand across Draco’s chest and vanished the mess. His cleaning charm scrubbed across Draco’s sensitive flesh, making him shudder. He opened his eyes to see Harry on his knees, sitting back on his feet, still nestled in the cradle of Draco’s thighs. He had a soft, embarrassed sort of smile on his face and Draco wanted to taste it. He sat up just enough to curl his arms around the back of Harry’s neck and pull him back down, rolling him onto his back and kissing him. It wasn’t the biting, desperate kisses from earlier, but something softer, sweeter, languid and sleepy. He kissed Harry for long minutes, holding him in the tangle of his arms until their lips stopped moving and they just stayed nose to nose, eyes closed, sharing space and air.

They didn’t talk. Neither of them said a word, just let the liquor and the exhaustion chase them down into sleep.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BEHOLD: [THE POOL SCENE BY @FICTIONAL](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/686063850659119136/795535322036961310/IMG_1366_2_copy.JPG)  
> You can yell at her about how amazing her work is by [clicking here](https://fictional.tumblr.com/post/639406931243630592/my-first-post-of-2021-is-actually-a-late-2020)


	16. In which Harry is predictably broody and Ginny is predictably wonderful.

Harry shifted on Madam Malkin’s riser, yelping when one of the floating pins zipping around the hemline of his trousers stuck him in the ankle.

“Mr. Potter,” Madam Malkin snapped. “How many times must I tell you to be still?”

Ginny snickered behind her hand from the overstuffed armchair in the corner.

“Sorry,” Harry muttered.

He nearly shook with the effort it took to keep from moving. Harry hated being still, and the last few days without work to distract him had nearly shoved him off the deep end. And that didn’t even take into account last night.

 _Fucking hell_ , last night. Harry shifted again only to receive a barbed look from the elderly tailor. He just couldn’t stop thinking about it.

He’d fucked Draco Malfoy. He’d sucked him off then fucked him. He’d watched him come, held him close, and tasted near every inch of him. Harry honestly didn’t know what the hell he’d been thinking. Perhaps he hadn’t been thinking – he was usually spontaneous when drinking. But some part of it didn’t feel random or accidental. It felt inevitable. They’d skirted around it for weeks, with the flirtation and the domestic games, but Harry never actually expected it to turn physical. He’d imagined it, sure. He’d imagined it graphically and repeatedly ever since he took over Draco’s parole, but he’d expected it to remain there – a fantasy, a temptation that would inevitably fade as soon as Draco’s sentence ended. And that date was rapidly approaching.

By Harry’s calculations, Draco only had two weeks left on his sentence, and then he’d be gone. And Harry wasn’t exactly sure how he felt about that. On one hand, with Draco out of England and out of his life, the fog of attraction and lust would clear from Harry’s head and he could think properly for the first time in weeks. But on the other hand, there was something addictive in the obsession. For so long, Harry had no focus. It was paperwork and pub nights, take away with Ron, board meetings with Hermione, a few failed blind dates. Stagnant repetition for Harry, all the while the world moved on around him. Friends started new lives, new careers, new families. And what did Harry have? Nothing. A dead-end job he hated. Friends who pitied him. Fans who tortured him. An empty house and a cold bed.

Something about this _thing_ with Draco made Harry feel alive. It made him wake up in the morning and, for once, look forward to whatever crazy thing Draco was about to subject him to, to wonder exactly how far they’d push it, how long it would take them to snap. And now that they had, were things different between them? Harry didn’t know. He hadn’t stuck around to find out.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t wanted to stay. Draco had looked like some kind of dream that morning, pale, glowing, and spread across black silk sheets, his usually smirking face soft and vulnerable with sleep. Harry wanted to taste morning on him, to have breakfast and fall back into one another, to while away the day between the sheets. But instead, he’d panicked. He’d hastily gathered his own clothes from where they were heaped in the corner of the room, stepped into crumpled jeans and zipped his sweatshirt over his bare chest and then stumbled half-blind to the patio in search of his glasses.

It didn’t feel right, to just leave without a word. He had a feeling maybe Draco preferred it like that, but it wasn’t Harry’s way. So, he found a quill and left a note on the nearest piece of paper he could find – which just so happened to be the Witch Weekly March issue featuring Harry in his pants. He flipped to the proper page and scribbled across the picture in thick black script.

_See you Thursday._

_H_

He hesitated. Maybe he should have said thank you? Or ‘I had fun’? But no, that didn’t feel right. So, with one final look and an indulgent pass of fingers through pale, delicate hair, Harry had escaped into the early morning, still cool and breezy before the inevitable humidity settled.

“All right, Mr. Potter. You are free to fidget elsewhere. Your robes will be ready by Friday,” Madam Malkin said, tucking away her hovering pins and curling measuring tape with a flick of her wand.

“Erm, thanks,” Harry grumbled, letting Ginny take his arm and lead him out of the tailor’s shop.

“Merlin’s bollocks, Harry. I’ve seen two-year-olds sit still better than you. What’s going on?”

“Nothing. I’m fine,” he muttered.

“He said, sounding very _not fine_. What is with you? And I swear to Circe, Harry Potter if you say ‘I’m fine’ once more I’m going to punch you somewhere very vulnerable and very well hidden by your robes because I will not have you ruining my wedding photos with your stupid black eye. ”

Harry couldn’t suppress his grin. Ginny always had a way of pulling his head out of his arse.

“Okay, then I won’t say it. Even if it’s true,” Harry said.

Ginny stopped and turned to him, halting his movement. The Diagon Alley crowds moved around them like the river around rocks. Harry always did have a strong handle on his notice-me-not charms.

“I’m not stupid, Harry. You’ve been acting strangely for weeks. Is this just about all the shit at work? Or is there something else going on? You can tell me, you know,” Ginny said, her expression gentle and her eyes imploring.

Harry sighed. Part of him wanted to admit the whole sordid affair to Ginny and get it off his chest. She’d still love him. He didn’t doubt that. But he was afraid she might look at him differently. He hadn’t told any of his friends that he’d been spending time with Malfoy, and he certainly hadn’t told them about the way Malfoy haunted his thoughts every hour of the day. He wasn’t ready to tell her that. He was barely ready to admit it to himself. But there was something else he could tell her. Something else he’d never really said aloud to any of his friends.

“Gin, I’m sorry I could never really love you like you deserved,” Harry said.

“Fucking hell, Harry,” Ginny said with a roll of her eyes. “If you’re about to confess your undying love for me and try and break up my wedding, I’m going to have to go ahead and give you that black eye anyway because it’s time to stop pining. I got over you years ago.”

“Yeah, I know. You’ve made that abundantly clear,” Harry said with a wry smile to match Ginny’s, but his gut churned anyway. “It’s just – I hope you know that it wasn’t because you aren’t great.”

Ginny arched one eyebrow, but she waited for Harry to continue.

“It’s just that – you know – I love you. I think I always have. But not the way you needed. I’m starting to realize that maybe I can’t love _any_ girls like that. The way they deserve.”

Ginny’s second eyebrow met the first.

“I _like_ girls. I really do,” Harry continued. “But I just think that, maybe, I can’t _love_ them. Am I making any sense?”

The corner of Ginny’s lips twitched.

“Yeah, Harry. You’re making sense,” she said.

“Are you sure? Because I’m not exactly certain I even know what I’m trying to say.”

“That although you like girls physically, you think you may romantically prefer…not girls?”

Harry licked his lips and looked skyward, unable to meet Ginny’s eyes. He sighed.

“Yeah. Something like that,” he said.

“And when we’re saying, ‘not girls,’ what we’re really saying is men, right, Harry?”

Harry sighed again, even deeper this time. “Yeah. That’s what we’re saying.”

“And is this just something that came to you in the dead of night? Or is there someone specific that has made you realize this?”

Harry shrugged. “I’ve known for a while. A couple of years, I guess.”

“Right,” Ginny snorted. “So, you standing up on Malkin’s riser with hearts in your eyes is because you just _so_ love the idea of a proper inseam.”

“I’m very fashion-conscious if you haven’t noticed,” Harry said, gesturing to his torn jeans and ratty Converse trainers. “And I didn’t have hearts in my eyes.”

“Sure you didn’t, Harry. Whatever you say.” She smiled and bumped her shoulder against his.

They started walking again, side by side.

“So, you don’t care?” Harry asked.

“Of course not,” she said with a little shake of her head that sent a cascade of ginger hair over her shoulders. “Have you told Hermione and my brother yet?”

“No,” Harry admitted. “Not yet.”

“They won’t care either, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“But you should tell them, before they read that you’ve started dating the bassist from the Weird Sisters in Witch Weekly.”

Harry pulled a face. “Not my type.”

“No? Not into rock stars?”

“Too messy.”

Ginny smirked and elbowed Harry in the side. “Like them clean-cut then, do you?”

He looked at Ginny out the corner of his eye. “Maybe,” he said.

“Thinking of inviting the not-girl you’ve been daydreaming about to the wedding?”

“God, no. Definitely not.”

Ginny pouted. “Why not?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Oh, Harry,” she said. “Everything is complicated if you let it be. But if there is anyone in this world who deserves them uncomplicated, it’s you. If you like him, why fight it?”

“You say that now…” Harry said, letting his words trail off with a shake of his head.

“Oh, come on, Harry. It can’t be that bad.”

He shot her a sceptical look.

“What, is he old? Ugly? God, it’s not Robards, is it?” Ginny said with a dramatic grimace.

Harry made a graphic retching noise in response.

“So your taste in men can’t be _that_ horrible. Short of walking into my wedding with Draco Malfoy, I highly doubt it could be all that bad.”

Harry’s fake vomiting turned into very real choking, but Ginny just thumped him on the back with her fist.

“Just please yourself, Harry. Everything else will work out fine.”

Harry wasn’t so sure.

****

Harry went back to work the next day. He avoided eye contact with Briggs, even though he could feel the heat of her vicious glare against his back. He didn’t check in with Robards, just went straight to his desk and started working his way through the mountain of paperwork that had accumulated in his absence.

Occasionally, another Auror would hover around his desk, ask his advice on a case, or what he used as a counter curse to combat multiple body binds. He even went out on a call, a low-level vandalism and parole infraction that ended in nothing more than another mountain of paperwork.

In two days, Harry would turn twenty-eight. He looked around him at the old and grizzled faces, as well as the bright and hopeful ones from his year. He didn’t see himself in any of them. If he had so little joy in his work by twenty-eight, there’d be nothing left of him by the time he reached forty.

When six o’clock mercifully arrived, Harry took the Ministry floo home.

He felt so much lighter in his Welwyn cottage than he had at Grimmauld Place. He’d handed the sale of his old house to a Wizard Real Estate company and arranged with Hermione to have all the resulting funds funneled directly into Harry’s various organizations.

As much as he loved his new house, it still seemed uncomfortably vacant. He’d begun to fill it with furniture, picking things from Muggle catalogues under Draco’s watchful eye. He’d managed to finish painting the kitchen and he had to admit, Draco had been right about the buttercream looking better than the cornsilk. But it just didn’t look _lived in_. Harry loved Ron and Hermione’s place because of all the homey touches. The knick-knacks and collectibles that lined the mantle, the stacks of books, the half-played game of Wizard’s chess abandoned on the coffee table, the walls adorned with dozens of framed photographs of their friends and loved ones. A whole history of their lives together was there on display for anyone willing to look long enough to see it.

Harry had a few things of his own. There were his clothes, of course, though he’d never really cared much about those, being that he spent most of his time in uniform. Hermione had given him a couple of pictures of them from their Hogwarts days, which he hung lovingly in his kitchen, alongside a painting of a deer that Luna made for him. But other than that? There was nothing.

It was a bit sad if he was honest, and it shaped the loneliness that usually persisted as nothing more than a dull ache, turning it razor sharp. In two weeks, Ginny would marry Ian. Eventually, Ron and Hermione would have the time to start the family they always wanted. Even Luna and Parkinson had plans to live abroad in Denmark for the winter so that Luna could continue her research on kelpies and Parkinson could do…whatever it was that Parkinson did, which from what Harry could tell, was sit around and look imperiously down her nose at people. He wished them all well, he really did. But where did that leave him?

And it wasn’t just them. Once Draco finished his sentence and moved on, who would Harry bicker over paint colors with? Who would tell Harry that his coffee table couldn’t possibly be on the north side of the room because Merlin’s tits, hadn’t he ever heard of Feng Shui? Who would make him tea and leave it under a stasis charm even though they claimed to find it disgusting?

When Harry went to bed that night, he crawled between cool sheets and looked out the window at the waning moon. He wondered what Draco was doing. Had he gone back to the club without Harry? Had he found Jeremy or some other willing body and taken them home with him? Did he whisper and moan into their ear the way he did with Harry? Did he fall asleep with them, a tangle of limbs, breathing softly against their neck the way they had the previous night?

Even though it made his gut twist and his throat tighten, Harry couldn’t stop imagining it. He couldn’t stop torturing himself with thoughts of Draco with another man because, for some sick reason, Harry felt like he deserved it. He let the pain and the jealousy lance through his heart again and again because it was what he got for wanting a man like Draco. It was what he deserved for having feelings for someone who could never return them.

It served him right. 

  
  
  



	17. In which Draco finally gets Harry Potter’s autograph and Pansy Parkinson takes him down a notch.

Draco reached across the bed, his eyes still closed, seeking a warm body and soft skin, only to find the silk sheets already gone cool. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter and winced as he opened them, confirming that Harry was indeed long gone.

He didn’t know what he expected. Once the alcohol wore off, it was no surprise that Harry had suffered a meltdown and gone scurrying home to lick his wounded pride. It was a pity, though. If he’d stayed just a little longer, Draco would have made sure he didn’t regret a thing. He would have sucked him off, made him eggs, and kissed him until his eyes crossed.

But no. That wasn’t right. That wasn’t what Draco did at all. And it certainly wasn’t what he did with Harry Potter. It was just sex. Exactly as he’d wanted it. So why did he suddenly feel so bereft?

Draco scrubbed a hand across his face and pushed himself up on his elbows. The sun was high in the sky, meaning it was probably close to noon, but it didn’t matter. It wasn’t as if Draco had anywhere to be. Then he saw the Witch Weekly March issue spread open across the bedside table. Draco frowned and pulled it toward him.

_See you Thursday._

_H_

A grin broke across Draco’s face. Harry had left him a note scribbled in his sloppy scrawl across the shirtless, trouserless photo of him like an autograph. Merlin, Draco was going to keep that stupid thing forever now. Thank Salazar there was no one else around or else he’d never live down the soppy look he couldn’t seem to wipe off his face.

And Merlin, Circe, and Jesus fucking Christ, he had to pull himself together! Draco hardly even recognized himself these days, mooning over a clod like Harry Potter. Potter wasn’t even that great! He had sloppy hair and ugly clothes and that stupid laugh that made Draco’s insides go all hot and sticky. And that was saying nothing of the way his eyes glinted when he was teasing Draco about something. Or gods help him, the way he moaned Draco’s name, or the way he held his face when they kissed, the taste of his skin, the scent of his hair, the –

Draco sighed and dropped his head into his hands. He needed to get out of the house.

He wished Blaise would come back from wherever he was and distract him. He hadn’t heard anything from the bastard in two weeks aside from an off-handed text on his Muggle mobile that said: contract extended, enjoy the flat, don’t break anything.

Rather than pacing the flat like a caged panther, Draco finally broke down and decided to give Pansy a call. It had been years since they shared more than a quick how-do-you-do via owl, and truthfully, Draco was never really sure he even liked Pansy. With her sharp tongue and ruthless countenance, it sometimes felt a bit too much like looking in the mirror. But clearly spending too much time with Harry was starting to rot Draco’s brain because he was _thinking_ things and _wanting_ things _-_ desperate, pathetic things that were entirely foreign to him. And if there was anyone who could deliver unto him a much-needed reality check – swiftly, brutally, and with relish – it was Pansy Parkinson.

Draco thought it a rather odd twist of events that his snide, cruel friend ended up with someone like Luna Lovegood. Draco could admit that Lovegood had her odd charm and was certainly attractive enough. But Merlin’s beard, he didn’t know how someone could sit with a straight face while she babbled on about Nargles, aura cleansing, and the sentience of teapots. At first, Draco thought Pansy was just having a laugh, until the two of them moved in together a year prior and, well, even Pansy wouldn’t joke about that.

Draco called Pansy on the floo. She was surprised to hear from him, told him his shirt was far too tight and that it made him look like a slag, and then invited him round for tea.

Pansy and Luna’s house was an odd mix of things that somehow managed to work. The cream coloured sofas and jewel-toned accent pillows were all Pansy, while the dried flowers hanging from the rafters, the windchimes shaped like Nifflers and decorated with demitasse spoons, and the lingering scent of Patchouli and Anise were definitely Lovegood.

Draco studied the photos on the bookshelf and felt as though he was looking at snippets of the life of two strangers, rather than one of his closest friends from school. Suddenly the gap between them formed into more of a chasm and Draco wondered if maybe Pansy had changed in ways he hadn’t anticipated. There were pictures of Pansy and Luna at the base of the Eiffel Tower, Pansy looking ridiculously chic and smug as Luna kissed her cheek, daisies woven into her yellow hair. He stifled a laugh at a somewhat blurry image of Pansy standing at the foot of a fjord, bundled in a gigantic woolen jumper, scowling and stamping her feet while Luna frolicked behind her in furry boots. There were pictures of them with others from school, and some faces he didn’t recognize.

Draco didn’t really have any photographs, beyond the ones he left at his mother’s in the Riviera. And even then, they weren’t really _his_. And yet, he suddenly felt the urge to see them again and he made a mental note to floo Narcissa.

Pansy emerged from the kitchen trailed by a hovering silver tray that settled itself neatly on a small bistro table by the window.

“I thought we were having tea,” Draco said, eying the bottle of Prosecco and a stack of biscuits. Pansy did always share his affinity for sweets and expensive sparkling wine.

“Tea is dull. Prosecco is better,” she declared, pouring each of their flutes to the rim.

Draco really couldn’t argue with that.

They chatted about nothing, at first. They discussed the price of Muggle handbags, the merits of Italian versus French wine, and the unseasonably hot weather. It felt stilted, like an act, and Draco had a strong suspicion that Pansy was waiting him out. When the small talk finally grew too strained, Draco gave in. She was expecting it anyway.

“So, you haven’t asked what I’m doing here,” he said, taking a long sip of his drink.

“It appears you’re picking at dessert and drinking all my Prosecco,” she said.

Draco leveled her with a look, but she remained unfazed.

“I don’t have to ask what you’re doing here, Draco,” she said, placing her glass on the table. “I know you got yourself arrested for doing something childish. Again.”

“It was not childish,” Draco argued petulantly. “Gambling is the opposite of childish. In fact, the very first requirement of gambling is that you _not_ be a child in order to participate.”

“All right then, idiotic. Shall we go with that? You did something idiotic and now you’re stuck loafing around Blaise’s fuckpad while Potter babysits you and makes sure you don’t misbehave.”

“It _is_ a fuckpad, isn’t it,” Draco declared with a snort. “All that silk and animal print. Gauche.”

“Like a set from a porno,” Pansy said with a shake of her head. “Hell of a view, though.”

“Hell of a view,” he agreed, then sighed. “Shall I even ask how you found out?”

“It was probably when Potter came tearing into pub night shouting, ‘you will not fucking believe who I arrested today! That slimy git, Draco Malfoy.’”

“Now that’s just rude,” Draco said, scoffing. “There must be some kind of law against just announcing arrests at a pub for all to hear.”

“Oh, there probably is. I didn’t think too much of it really, until Luna came home a few weeks ago and told me she spent the evening with you and Harry packing up his things for the new house he bought. And well, I thought that a bit odd, particularly the part where she said you were quite upset that Harry had hurt himself, that you were clucking over him like a mother hen.”

“I most certainly was not.”

“Tell me, Draco, how exactly did Potter find that lovely little cottage in Welwyn?”

“He probably found himself a real estate agent. That’s what most people do,” Draco deflected.

“Perhaps. Except that Luna found it rather surprising that Harry would do something like that without a bit of prodding. And I got to thinking, hm, who do I know that is an expert at prodding people into doing things, clucks like a hen, and convinces a man of simple tastes to spend two thousand pounds on an Ethan Allen sofa,” Pansy said, tapping one long, red fingernail against her jaw.

“Did he go with the Ethan Allen? Blast, I was hoping he’d pick the Bernhardt. Far more suitable. And it matched the curtains much better.”

“Draco,” Pansy said, her stare as flat as her voice.

Draco sighed and flopped back in his chair.

“Alright. I was bored. And he was there. It was just a bit of fun,” he said flippantly.

Pansy’s sharply arched black eyebrow twitched. “Fun? Have you been having fun with Harry Potter, Draco? I thought you were just playing house and spending his money. Is there something more?”

“No, of course not. It’s Harry Potter.”

“Exactly.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Draco tried to keep the snarl from his voice.

“You’ve wanted him for years.”

Draco gawped. “I have not!”

“You have and everyone knows it,” she said primly, smoothing her skirt with one hand.

“It’s nothing, Pans. I don’t know what Lovegood told you, but there is nothing going on between Potter and me. I needed a project, and Salazar knows the man is a fixer-upper. So, I helped him with his silly little house. That's it.”

“Do you even hear yourself talk? You didn’t help him pick out a brand of tea, Draco,” Pansy said.

“Unfortunately not, else he would not still be drinking that PG Tips swill. And what, you think I can’t be friendly with some ruddy Gryffindor?”

“Not particularly,” Pansy said with a shrug.

“That’s rich, coming from you, Pans. Shacking up with Loony Lovegood.”

Pansy’s expression tightened.

“I know you don’t get it. Luna and me,” she said.

“Not in the slightest,” Draco agreed.

Pansy appraised him for a few seconds before she spoke. “They’re not like we used to think.”

“They? Who’s they?”

“Everyone else,” she said, simply.

Draco frowned.

“And Luna? She’s everything. She just…” Pansy pursed her blood-red lips. “She lets me be me.”

“Oh, Christ,” Draco said with a dramatic roll of his eyes.

“No. Shut up,” Pansy snapped. “You don’t get to make fun of me for this. I’m certain you know what it feels like to always be putting on an act. To always be performing for mummy and daddy and everyone who expects you to be someone you don’t even really recognize. You probably know it even better than I do, which is why you fucked off to America or wherever to start a life of petty crime just to prove a point.”

“It’s not always petty,” he argued weakly, feeling suddenly small. “There were felonies, even.”

“Well, good for you. But do you know what else you could do to show them you’re not who they think you are?” Pansy said, sitting forward. “You could _live._ ”

“I live,” Draco grumbled.

“Yeah, like tomorrow doesn’t matter.”

“We can’t all shack up with a member of Dumbledore’s Army and go on pretending the war didn’t happen.”

Pansy’s face pinched and Draco felt a curl of guilt in his gut. “You ran away and are pretending that’s better?”

Draco sighed. “Pans, this is too much. I’m not in the mood to have an intervention or a _moment_ or whatever it is you’re hoping to make of this.”

Pansy crossed her hands in her lap and sat back in her chair. “Luna loves me exactly as I am and, for the first time in my life, I feel like I’m free. Like, when I say something stupid or something goes wrong, she’s still there, holding my hand, loving me just as much as she did before. Maybe more.”

“Yes, yes,” Draco said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “The transformative power of love and regular sex. You’ve cracked it.”

“You’re not the piece of shit everyone thinks you are, Draco Malfoy. No matter how hard you try to prove otherwise.”

“Oh, gosh, thanks.”

“You act cruel and snappish when you feel threatened. Like a chihuahua,” Pansy said.

“I resent that!”

“I bet you do.”

“I’m more of an English Setter, really,” Draco said, flipping his hair.

Pansy smiled and rolled her eyes. “But you’re funny. And sort of charming, in a prickish way. And I know you love fiercely, and with your whole heart, if someone is lucky enough to win it.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, darling, but there is no one aiming to win this prickish, sort-of-charming heart,” Draco said and drained his Prosecco.

Pansy snagged the bottle and refilled Draco’s glass without hesitation. “That’s a pity. Because for the right bloke, it could be quite a prize. Now, drink your Prosecco and tell me about all the nasty things you’ve been getting up to with the Yanks. It’s been ages since I’ve heard one of your preposterous stories and I could use a laugh.”

Draco grinned and launched into a mostly true story about the time he stole the Escalade of a Mexican cartel leader, which he promptly crashed, being that he can’t drive, and had to hide at the bottom of a skip for two hours.

They laughed and it felt good and sort of normal. Draco hardly thought about Harry Potter at all.

****

Draco fluffed his hair and contemplated whether three buttons undone on his shirt was too many. He didn’t want to look too tarty. He was going for appealing, in an approachably sexy sort of way, and was certain he was entirely failing. He gave up and returned to pacing the living room, hoping to wear holes in Blaise’s Persian carpet.

It was finally Thursday and Harry was due at any minute. Tea was made, Draco was perfectly coiffed, everything was arranged. Except for the fact that Draco felt like he’d swallowed a basket of hornets and that he might be sick at any moment.

Draco wasn’t particularly used to feeling nervous, not lately at least. He supposed there was once a time where he’d lived in constant anxiety, let it absolutely ravage him until even the sight of his own reflection in the mirror would cause him to jump, his heart thundering in his chest. This felt a bit like that. The fear was there, certainly. But there was also an edge of pleasure, a delicious sense of anticipation that suffused him every time Harry was expected.

It was completely exhausting, feeling things.

Just to add to Draco’s pique, that particular day wasn’t just any Thursday, it was Harry’s birthday, and Draco had gone and done something silly.

He glanced at the wrapped package he’d placed carefully on the dining table. Maybe he shouldn’t have done it. It was a rather brilliant gift, and at first, he’d congratulated himself for thinking of it. But now that the day had arrived and the thing was sitting there in front of him, he worried that it might be misconstrued as inappropriate, or worse, _sentimental_.

It wasn’t exactly the sort of thing you gave someone you barely considered a friend. It certainly wasn’t something you gave someone you were just fucking while passing through town.

In a fit of frustrated anxiety, Draco considered chucking the gift off the balcony, dropping his trousers and saying ‘here’s your gift,’ but he didn’t think Harry would find that very amusing. He’d probably hex him. Wandlessly. The fit fuck.

But it was too late. The lift bell was already chiming. Draco dashed back into the bedroom to change his shirt once more. Maybe if he looked nice, Harry wouldn’t AK him into next week.

  
  
  



	18. In which Harry receives an unexpected gift (and no, it isn't in Draco's trousers).

Harry’s stomach was wound up in knots as he stepped out of the lift and into the penthouse foyer. He hadn’t spoken to Draco since the night they spent in bed together – nothing beyond the hasty and cowardly note Harry left on his bedside before doing a runner.

Had it been the other way around, Harry would have been furious. If someone – if _Draco_ left him alone in bed and snuck out into the dawn without a goodbye, Harry would have tracked him down and hexed his bollocks off. But some part of Harry still felt like leaving was exactly what Draco would have wanted him to do. It was all so confusing and fucked up and Harry honestly had no idea how to act.

He didn’t see Draco anywhere in the flat at first glance.

Harry cleared his throat and called out, “Draco?” Then winced. Should he go back to calling him Malfoy? What was the proper protocol after you had mind-blowing and uncomfortably intimate sex with your former nemesis and current parolee? Using a surname seemed somehow inappropriate, but Draco’s first name still felt foreign on Harry’s tongue.

“I’ll be out in a sec.” Draco’s voice floated in from somewhere to Harry’s right, probably the bedroom, so Harry turned the opposite direction and went to wait in the nice, safe kitchen.

Harry found the usual tea steaming under a stasis charm on the dining table, next to a carefully wrapped package with a green bow. 

Harry halted. He hadn’t actually expected Draco to get him a gift. He assumed that Draco was just being a prat when he boasted about trying to one-up Harry’s friends. Harry certainly didn’t expect anything of significance, but there it sat, small and beautifully wrapped, waiting for him.

Harry sunk into the chair, still staring at the gift.

He glanced up as Draco emerged from the bedroom. He appeared freshly showered in trousers, shirt, and waistcoat, looking elegant, beautiful, and a little breathless, but at least the smug smirk was familiar.

Draco dropped into the chair opposite Harry and crossed his ankle over his knee. His smirk stretched into a rather brilliant grin.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hello,” Harry replied, his own smile small and a little unsure. He gestured to the parcel with a dip of his chin. “Is that for me?”

“No, actually,” Draco said. “That’s for the other bloke that’s coming round later. It’s his birthday.”

Harry chewed his lip and frowned at the gift, then at Draco, who just rolled in his eyes fondly.

“Of course it’s for you, Harry. That’s why it’s wrapped in green and silver,” Draco said with a wink.

Harry was completely out of his depth. Was he supposed to act like things had changed between them? They clearly had, but maybe Draco didn’t think of it as anything more than an alcohol-induced tumble. Harry wasn’t even sure _he_ thought of it as anything more. But Draco hadn’t tried to touch him. He was acting casual and friendly, and Harry tried to take some comfort in that.

“You can open it,” Draco said. “If you want. You don’t have to, though.”

Harry's frown deepened. “Why wouldn’t I open it?”

“Well, you’re looking at it like it might bite you.”

“Will it?” Harry asked, reaching out for the package, then hesitating.

Draco chuckled. “Open it and find out.”

Harry pulled the package toward him. He loved gifts wrapped in paper. He never got any growing up and he liked the way they crinkled, the way the edges were neat and square. He liked to pull back the tape and unfold the crisp triangles of paper without tearing them.

He expected Draco to make fun of him or hurry him along, but he was watching Harry out of the corner of his eye, a crease between his brows. He sipped his tea idly and didn’t even comment on how much he disliked Harry’s plebeian brand.

When Harry pulled open the paper, he revealed the back of a dark wood picture frame, which was surprising. He couldn’t think of anything Draco could possibly give him worth framing. He turned it over and his heart stopped all at once.

Smiling back at him from behind glass was a woman – red hair, green eyes like his own. She was smiling shyly, then grinning, then laughing with her head thrown back.

Lily. His mum.

Harry’s throat clicked as he swallowed dryly.

“Where did you get this?” Harry asked.

“It was with Severus’ things. He didn’t have any family, so his personal effects ended up with me. My mother stored them until I could go through them and I did, eventually, a couple of years ago. Found that in there. Was labeled. That’s how I knew it was her. Was quite surprised to find it, really. Probably should have given it to you sooner but…you know.” Draco cleared his throat. “Were they friends? Severus and your mum?”

Harry nodded slowly.

He was speechless. The few photos he had of his parents were some of his most treasured possessions. He never expected he’d see another one, that he’d hold one in his hands.

“Thought your new house might do with a few…personal touches,” Draco said.

“Thank you.”

Draco cleared his throat again and shifted in his chair, but Harry couldn’t look away from the photo.

“You’re welcome,” Draco said, a little softly. “Happy birthday, Harry.”

Harry looked up at him. Draco was chewing his lip and twisting the ring on his finger. Nervous then.

“So, did I win?” Draco asked.

“What?”

“Best gift?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, his voice rough. “Yeah, you won.”

They drank their tea. Draco prattled on about visiting Pansy and Luna, about their home and their travels, but Harry wasn’t really listening. He felt his gaze drawn back to the framed photo where it sat on the table between them.

It felt like someone was twisting a knife into his heart, cranking it slowly, stealing the breath from his lungs. Draco had given him a picture of his mum. _Draco Malfoy_ had given him a carefully framed picture of his mum and Harry couldn’t for the life of him figure out why. It certainly wasn’t for some non-existent gift giving contest. If he’d wanted to win that, he’d have gone for something flashy and expensive that Harry would have no use for, but this was not that. This was special. This was the sort of thing you gave to someone you cared about, someone for whom you had feelings. Did Draco have feelings for him? Was that even possible?

He could feel Draco’s endless shifting and fidgeting, his awkward attempts at filling the silence, but Harry was too lost in his thoughts to give him any relief. Instead, he just watched him. He watched him move his teacup every few seconds, spin his ring, tug at his hair, trace the armrests of the chair with his fingers.

It was still early, but Harry didn’t know how much longer he could sit there. He needed to get out, get some space, think for just a little bit.

He pushed back his chair with a noisy scrape and clambered to his feet.

“I should be going,” Harry announced.

Draco’s eyes went wide, and he blinked a few times at Harry’s abrupt break from silence.

“Right. Of course,” Draco said, standing and clasping his hands behind his back.

Harry folded the silver paper around the photo and cradled it against his chest.

“Well,” Draco said to his shoes. “Enjoy your party.”

“Yeah, thanks.” Harry hesitated. “You didn’t – did you want to come?”

Draco’s eyes snapped to Harry’s and his face twisted. “God, no!”

Harry chuckled, feeling the tightness in his chest loosen just the tiniest bit. “Can’t say I blame you.”

“Oh, go let your adoring fans dote on you for a night. Try not to look so sour,” Draco said with a dramatic roll of his eyes.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll see you later?”

“Sure. You know where to find me.”

“And thank you. For this,” Harry held the frame tighter against his chest. “Really.”

Draco stepped up to him, not too close, but close enough that Harry could smell his cologne, could see the cloudy shift in his grey eyes. He reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair behind Harry’s right ear, his fingers lingering on the curve of his jaw.

“You’re very welcome, Harry.”

Harry took a step back and turned toward the lift. Just as he stepped in, Draco called after him.

“You know, if your party is really, truly dreadful, you can always come back here. I promise not to ask for your autograph, make you eat cake, or sing any embarrassing birthday songs,” he said with a tentative smile.

“Thank god for that,” Harry responded with a small smile of his own. “We’ll see, all right?”

Something in Draco’s expression cracked, but only for a fraction of a second. It was so brief Harry wondered if he’d seen it at all. “Sure, whatever.”

Harry got into the lift and gave a little wave as the doors shut.

He wilted against the wall as soon as he was out of sight.

****

Harry’s birthday party was at a new pub in the Wizarding district near Dalston that appeared to be the perfect combination of comfortable and casual. Hermione had reserved the entire patio and when Harry arrived, everyone was already there, erupting in a chorus of whooping and shouting. Something exploded towards the back and then there was a lot more shouting – mostly directed at Seamus.

“I told him to skip the fireworks,” Hermione muttered under her breath as she took Harry by the elbow and led him to a table.

“Telling Seamus to skip the fireworks just means he’ll bring the flamethrower instead,” Ron said as he pressed a cold pint into Harry’s hand, which Harry accepted gratefully.

“Happy birthday, Harry.” Hermione kissed him on the cheek.

“Twenty-eight, you’re getting old, mate,” Ron said, grinning beneath a mustache of beer foam.

Hermione tutted and wiped it away with her thumb and something in Harry’s chest tightened painfully.

“I feel old,” Harry admitted.

“Don’t listen to him,” Hermione said as she swatted Ron’s shoulder gently. “You don’t look a day over twenty-seven.”

It was a beautiful evening. The kind where the heat of the day gave way to a lingering, balmy warmth that lended itself perfectly to one too many drinks in the company of everyone Harry loved. He was absolutely smothered with affection. His pint glass never ran dry and Harry let himself bask in the attention.

He thought about all the birthdays he’d spent alone on Privet Drive, lucky if he received a pair of cast-off socks as a gift. He thought of all the birthdays that came after, the ones spent knowing that another school year was about to begin. He would gorge himself on the chocolate frogs Ron owled him and flip through the crisp pages of whatever book Hermione had sent, because those little indulgences were the only assurance that Harry hadn’t dreamed the whole thing.

And here he was, grown, surrounded by friends as they laughed, danced, and drank as the light faded and the patio lit itself in twinkling fairy lights. He was happy in that moment. The darkness still lingered on the edges of his mind, as it always did, but he tried not to let it drag him under that evening. He tried not to think about Draco, though it was nearly impossible.

Draco had invited Harry over that night and part of him desperately wanted to leave off and apparate to the penthouse to spend the final hours of his twenty-eighth birthday fucking away his worries over the London skyline. Because that was what Draco wanted, wasn’t it? That was why he invited him – to fuck. Harry wanted to, of course he did. It was some of the most brilliant sex he’d had in years – hell, probably some of the most brilliant sex he’d had in his life. And he could manage it. He could manage a bit of no-strings-attached sex to take the edge off the loneliness. He was young and single and that was the sort of thing he thought he ought to be doing. It was just a bit of fun.

But then Harry saw his mum’s face in his mind, smiling out from that frame, cradled in silver paper and his hand tightened on his pint glass. He just couldn’t parcel out the meaning behind it. Deep down, Harry knew what he wanted it to mean. He wanted it to mean that the frisson of _something_ that he felt between them wasn’t just in his head, that Draco felt it too. Was it even possible? And even if Draco did feel it, even if he wanted Harry, what could come of it?

Harry wanted things. He wanted what Ron and Hermione had, what Ginny and Ian had, hell, he’d even settle for what Luna and Parkinson had. He wanted cups of tea on the sofa, shared Sunday dinners at the Burrow, fingers in his hair, two sets of clothes in the closet. He didn’t just want someone to fuck, he wanted someone to love.

And Draco Malfoy was not the sort of someone Harry could love. Right?

Harry was pulled from his thoughts when Hermione came bustling up with a pretty witch with chestnut hair and a sweet smile in tow.

“Harry,” Hermione said. “You remember Olivia, right? From the Magical Creatures for Peace and Unity board meetings?”

Harry tried to suppress his wince and held out his hand. “Of course. Olivia, how are you?”

Olivia took Harry’s hand and held it. Her hand was small and soft, her grip gentle. Harry dropped it quickly.

“Happy birthday, Harry,” Olivia said. “I hope you don’t mind me crashing your party. Hermione said it would be okay.”

Olivia smiled. It was a nice smile, Harry thought. Even and soft, no hint of smirking cruelty.

“Yeah, course it’s okay. Thanks for coming.”

“Oh, would you look at that? My drink is empty, I’ll just go…fill it,” Hermione said with absolutely no subtlety at all, and hurried away.

Olivia sat delicately onto the bench next to Harry, propping one leg up and angling toward him.

“So, how have you been? How are the Aurors?” she asked.

Harry shrugged. “It’s alright, I suppose.”

“That must be a terribly exciting job.”

“It’s a lot more paperwork than you’d like to think,” Harry said with a shrug.

“Oh.”

The silence stretched. Harry bounced one knee, traced the condensation on his pint glass.

“And what about you?” he attempted. “How are things at work? I didn’t make it to the board meeting last month. Got caught up with something.”

Olivia brightened. “Oh, it’s brilliant. Last week we passed the Werewolf Integration Statute. It’s hugely important and I’m so pleased."

Olivia launched into a soliloquy, expounding on the intricacies of the bill and Harry’s mind drifted. He knew it was rude and Olivia seemed like a lovely girl. He wanted to be mad at Hermione for dumping the poor thing on him but supposed that was his fault as well. He hadn’t gotten around to telling her what he told Ginny, what he’d barely managed to admit to himself.

Harry looked at Olivia. He tried to imagine what it would be like to be with her, or someone like her. He could see it, he supposed. It didn’t take a stretch of the imagination to see someone like her doing all the little daily things – doing the washing up together, working in the garden, sharing space while making dinner. And those were the things he wanted. It could work, in theory. 

A discomforting realization came to Harry then. He’d only gone so far as to admit that he wanted the domestic bits, the saccharine sweetness that he witnessed between his friends and their partners. And here it was, sitting in front of him, and while he could see it just fine, it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

The painful, agonizing truth was, Harry wasn’t a man for sweetness alone. How would a girl like Olivia feel when Harry suffered one of his dark moods? When he woke in the dead of night, shouting and fighting invisible foes? Would she stand up to Harry when he was being a prick? Would she fight him? Would she let him bend her over the counter and fuck her brutally afterward because it was what he wanted, what he needed?

Harry didn’t think so. But he thought he knew of someone who would.

Harry needed both. He needed the sweet and dirty, the mean and tender, the vicious and doting. Just one or the other would never be enough and that was a horribly sobering thought.

“Would you excuse me?” Harry said, standing abruptly.

Olivia blinked, her face falling just a little. “Sure,” she said with a pained smile.

It was rude, Harry knew it was, but he just couldn’t bear to sit there one more second.

He went and got another beer and managed to slip away into the alleyway, where he sunk against the wall. He thought he’d managed to sneak away unnoticed, but a few moments later he heard footsteps – one set bouncing with long strides, the other a quick staccato. Harry sighed.

“He’s over here, Hermione,” Ron called, gesturing with his thumb toward Harry’s hiding place.

“Oh, Harry, are you alright?” Hermione said, peeking around the corner into the alleyway.

“Yeah, fine. Just needed a minute.” Harry scrubbed a hand across his face as his friends approached, one standing on either side of him, not too close, but present, solid, comforting.

Ron yanked a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and handed them to Harry with a crooked smirk.

“Ronald! Don’t give him those!” Hermione said, her voice chiding. “Oh, Harry, please don’t smoke. It’s a terrible habit.”

Ron just shrugged. “Oh, come on ‘Mione, it’s his birthday.”

“Where did you even get those?” she asked, snagging the pack from Harry’s hand, but not before he’d put one between his lips.

“From the Muggle shop. I know Harry likes to smoke when he’s drunk. Or brooding. You better give that back to him, it looks like he’s barreling towards both.”

“He can have the one,” Hermione held up a finger for emphasis. “I’m throwing the rest of these away.”

“Sorry, mum,” Harry snickered.

Harry lit the cigarette with wandless magic, which made Ron grin and Hermione scowl as she batted away the cloud of smoke.

“What are you doing out here, Harry?” Hermione asked.

“Seriously, that bird looked pretty put out,” Ron said.

Harry shrugged but it felt forced. “Just getting some air.”

“Ditching out on your own birthday party already?” Ron asked with a chuckle as he slumped against the wall next to Harry, his hands in his pockets.

Harry turned to Hermione, who was looking at him softly.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I really do appreciate all your hard work. It’s great.”

Hermione just patted Harry on the shoulder.

“Bit weird to find you hiding out here, mate. You’re usually the life of the party,” Ron said.

“I am?” Harry asked, confused. He’d never really been one for parties, especially ones in his honour. There were too many eyes on him, too many expectations as to how he should act, how he should feel.

Ron snorted. “Not in the slightest. But you’re usually better at faking it than this.”

“Something on your mind, Harry?” Hermione asked.

“No,” Harry said, then paused, and sighed. “Yeah, maybe.” He let his head thunk against the brick wall. “More like someone.”

Harry felt Ron shift next to him, turning to face him, and heard Hermione’s sharp intake of breath. He squeezed his eyes shut.

“Someone?” Hermione asked. “Harry, are you seeing somebody?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know. It’s complicated,” Harry said with a shake of his head, keeping his eyes closed so he wouldn’t have to see the surprise on their faces.

Ron squeezed his shoulder with one hand. “Good on you, mate! Houses and secret girlfriends? You’re on a roll! Is it that Chaser Ginny’s been trying to set you up with?”

Harry opened his eyes and chuckled. “No, she threw her drink at me, remember?”

“Yeah, but you always liked a bit of a fight,” Ron said with a shrug.

Hermione shot her husband a sharp look, then turned back to Harry. Her tone once again careful, as it always was when she was trying to coax something from him.

“What’s complicated about it, Harry?” Hermione asked.

“God,” he said, exhaling the smoky breath caught in his chest. “Everything.”

His friends waited and Harry took another drag of his cigarette, steeling himself. He trained his eyes on his shoes.

“It’s a bloke, for one.”

No one responded right away. There was no outburst, no exclamation of surprise, and when Harry glanced up, it was to see his friends sharing a small, secret smile.

Ron cracked first, a grin breaking across his face. He clapped Harry so hard on the shoulder he nearly lost his balance.

“Fucking finally. Circe’s tits, we’ve been waiting forever for you to say that aloud,” Ron said brightly.

“You knew?” Harry said, baffled.

“We had some idea,” Hermione admitted.

“You can’t keep secrets from us, Harry. Haven’t you figured that out yet? Like a three-headed dog, we are,” Ron said.

Harry cringed inwardly because that was exactly what scared him. It wasn’t just that Harry’s relationship with Draco was fraught with decades of unpleasantness. Ron and Hermione had their own histories with him – painful, excruciating memories that they wouldn’t soon forget. He wasn’t sure they would be able to forgive Draco, or that they’d even want to.

“That’s just about the least complicated part of it, I’m afraid,” Harry said, feeling deflated.

Hermione looked sympathetic. “But you like him?”

“Sometimes,” Harry said, honestly.

Ron laughed. “Well, that’s a start, I guess. You should have brought him to your party. That way I could grill him. Give him the old ‘hurt Harry and we’ll hang you from the Whomping Willow by your knickers’ speech.”

Harry chuckled at the image that brought to mind.

“What, don’t think I could take him?” Ron brandished a freckled fist.

Harry smirked at his friend. “I don't know about you, but I bet Hermione could.”

Ron laughed loudly. “Right you are, mate. Right you are. Come on you great git, no more sulking. You’re missing your party.”

Harry nodded and pushed himself away from the wall. He crushed his cigarette under the heel of his boot and Hermione vanished it, mumbling to herself about littering, bad habits, and foolish boys.

The noise of the party reasserted itself as soon as Harry followed Ron out of the alleyway. But Hermione tugged on Harry’s arm, pulling him back as Ron was reabsorbed into the boisterous crowd.

“Luna told me Malfoy came to your house after your accident,” she said. Her brows were pinched together, but the expression on her face was inscrutable.

The bottom fell out of Harry’s stomach and he struggled to regain his composure. Hermione was shrewd and knew him far too well. If he let it slip even the slightest bit, she would see right through him.

“Oh? Yeah. I guess he was,” Harry said with a shrug.

“Harry,” she said, her voice low with concern. “Why would Draco Malfoy come to your house?”

“I missed his parole meeting while I was in hospital.”

“Couldn’t someone else have handled that?” she asked.

“Briggs covered for me.”

Hermione’s frown deepened. It was no secret that Harry had gotten into it with Briggs. Unfortunately for Harry, Hermione was the smartest person he knew, and he had no doubt she was already starting to put the pieces together. Harry wanted desperately to escape her withering disapproval before she figured it all out.

“I won’t tell you what to do with your life, Harry,” she said gently – far more gently than Harry felt like he deserved. “Just promise me you’ll be careful?”

“Don’t worry so much,” Harry said with a grin that felt a little false. “Who in the world is more careful than me?”

Her responding smile was small. She shook her head fondly, but she didn’t press.

“There’s cake. Try to look like you aren’t being tortured while everyone sings, won’t you?”

“I’ll do my best,” Harry said.

She patted Harry’s arm and left him be, much to Harry’s relief.

There was indeed cake, and singing, and candles that exploded in Harry’s face when he tried to blow them out, leaving him sooty and with a ringing in his ears.

“Fantastic!” George Weasley exclaimed with a clap. “Harry always makes the best test subject. He’s bloody indestructible. Those are definitely going in the shop.”

Harry drank a few more beers and took comfort in the warm fuzziness that suffused him. The hour grew late and just as everyone was dispersing, Harry knew he had a decision to make. He could go home, to his little cottage, and sleep off his drunk, or…

Or he could apparate straight to the penthouse and pin Draco Malfoy up against the nearest wall and kiss him until Harry forgot that he wasn’t supposed to do things like that.

Luckily for Harry, Ron made the decision for him.

“Fancy coming back to ours tonight, Harry?” he said, throwing an arm around Harry’s shoulder and swaying slightly.

“Using me for breakfast again, Ron?”

“At least you’re good for something,” he said, tightening his vice hold around Harry’s neck and ruffling his hair. Harry smiled.

“Yeah, alright. I’m thinking waffles in the morning this time,” Harry conceded.

It was better this way, he decided. He’d sleep off his drunk, enjoy his time with his friends. Things were sure to look clearer in the daylight.

He’d decide what to do about Draco Malfoy tomorrow.

“’Mione, did you hear that? We’re having waffles for breakfast!”

Hermione just rolled her eyes and apparated them away to their cottage by the sea.


	19. In which Draco uses wax fruit as a weapon, and rather effectively.

There were photos of Harry’s birthday party in the Prophet on Friday morning. Nothing particularly exciting as far as paparazzi photos go – just pictures of Weasley with his arm around Harry’s shoulders, Granger making a toast, Longbottom, Lovegood, and Finnegan all smiling stupidly at Harry while he blushed over the candles on his cake.

Draco hadn’t wanted to go, even though he knew Harry’s invitation was primarily out of politeness. He wouldn’t have been welcome, and it would have made Harry endlessly uncomfortable having him there. But Draco had hoped he’d come round afterward. He didn’t expect it, of course. Harry didn’t make any promises. But some small part of him held out waiting. By the time two in the morning came and went, Draco gave up and went to bed. He buried his face into the pillow where Harry had slept just nights before and inhaled deeply, hoping to catch some lingering scent of his shampoo.

It was pathetic.

It was embarrassing.

It was so utterly out of character and Draco didn’t know what to do with himself.

So, when Blaise came home, swirling into the flat shouting about gifts of smuggled hashish and delayed portkeys, it was to find Draco cocooned on the sofa in naught but his dressing gown and Joy Division on the record player. He was on his fourth cup of tea and had already smoked half a pack of cigarettes and fancied another one.

“Merlin, you must be in a mood,” Blaise said, looming over where Draco was curled on the sofa. “Have you been sitting around in your pants all these weeks pining for me?”

“Yes, darling. I’ve been utterly bereft in your absence,” Draco drawled as he sipped his tea, ruddy English Breakfast. Disgusting.

“Clearly,” Blaise said, tossing three packs of the fragrant middle eastern cigarettes he always sent him into Draco’s lap.

Draco shook one of the cigarettes loose and lit it, letting the smoke trail behind him as he walked outside to the balcony. Blaise followed him and leaned against the railing, taking a long deep breath.

“Merlin, weeks in the Middle East makes the air in London smell sweet," Blaise said.

“Mm, yes, the scent of piss, petrol, and lager. What could be better?”

Blaise sighed theatrically. “Smells of home.”

He turned to Draco and tugged on the tie of his dressing gown.

“You look morose. What’s your problem?” Blaise asked.

Draco recoiled. “You mean, apart from being trapped in your fuck pad for the past two months? Everything’s tip-top.”

Blaise looked around the plush patio, tipped his head at the view. “You poor suffering thing.”

Blaise’s dark brows drew together, and he pushed off the railing. He crouched next to one of the lounges and then reemerged holding Draco’s black pants, still damp from the pool, hanging from his index finger.

“Been skinny dipping, Draco?”

Draco shrugged. He’d meant to clean that up but was too busy moping and waiting on Harry to be bothered.

Blaise bent down once more, this time holding his green shirt. “And not alone, I see?” He frowned again. “Wait, this is mine.” He sniffed it, then grinned. “But that’s not my cologne. Or yours.” He sniffed it again. “Smells fantastic. Who’ve you been playing dress-up with, love?”

“That’s none of your business,” Draco snapped.

“If he’s wearing my clothes and fucking around in my pool, I’d say it is.”

Draco flicked his cigarette into the pool and stalked back inside the flat, but Blaise was on his tail.

“It’s not like you to be so cagey about your conquests, Draco. Who is it? Someone I know?”

“Not really,” Draco deflected.

But Blaise was on him, spinning him around and pinning him against the back of the couch, one arm on either side of him, caging him in.

He plucked at the dressing gown at Draco's shoulder, letting it slide down his arm.

“You know you have teeth marks, right here,” he ran a long, dark finger over a bruise where Draco’s shoulder met his neck. Draco knew it was there. He could have healed the mark with a spell, but when he’d seen it in the mirror, it made his stomach flip. He could almost feel Harry’s teeth sinking into his flesh, could hear the low rumble of his growl, and decided to keep the marks as long as they’d stay.

“Fuck off, Blaise,” Draco said, coolly, wanting to cringe away from Blaise’s touch.

Blaise chuckled and pressed closer. “Not like you to keep trophies.”

“I didn’t even know it was there.”

“Liar.”

Draco tried to pull away, bending backward over the back of the couch to evade Blaise’s touch, but Blaise had an arm around his waist, pulling them closer.

It was always like this with them. It was just a game they played. Blaise didn’t really want him, and Draco only wanted Blaise when there was no one else more interesting, which there very clearly was. Blaise would poke and prod and tease until Draco admitted who he’d been fucking, then they’d have a laugh and a drink and go back to being mates. No harm done.

But Harry didn’t know that, which was made very clear by the stricken look on his face where he stood in front of the closing lift doors.

“Harry,” Draco gasped, shoving Blaise off him.

Blaise stumbled backward, his brows at his hairline and his eyes wide as he looked at Harry, then back at Draco, then back to Harry.

“Well, hi there, Potter. Fancy seeing you here,” Blaise said, his mouth curling into a devilish, knowing grin.

Draco shot Blaise a nasty look and rushed toward Harry, stopping a few feet away at the guarded look on Harry’s face. He looked like he was about to bolt.

“It’s not what it looks like, Harry,” Draco said, his hands lifted.

“I – erm – should have owled first, I guess,” Harry fumbled, shoving his hands deep into his pockets and taking a step backward.

“You don’t have to go,” Draco tried desperately, as Harry took another step back.

“No, that’s all right. I should be –” he gestured vaguely at the lift, then pressed the button repeatedly until the doors opened again with a ding.

“Welcome back, Zabini. Malfoy, I’ll – ah – see you around.”

Draco winced at the use of his surname. And with that, he stepped into the lift, the doors closing in front of him, taking him away.

Draco grabbed the ugly horse statue and flung it at Blaise, who dodged it just in time.

“You fucking arsehole!” Draco shouted.

“Whoa!” Blaise said, his head peeking up from behind the couch where he had ducked. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Is that who you were fucking? Harry Potter?!”

Draco grabbed the nearest thing he could find, which so happened to be a bowl of wax fruit, which was probably the most ridiculous thing he’d ever seen. Wax fruit. He flung an apple at Blaise’s head.

“You utter prick! Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” He threw a pear. “How long I fucking waited?” A banana. “I’m going to cut your fucking balls off,” another apple. “And shove them down your throat,” the whole bowl. “You complete bastard!”

“Draco! I didn’t know! Merlin’s tits!” The final pear nicked him on the side of the head. “Ow!”

Blaise lunged at Draco, yanking him away from the front table full of projectiles and pinning his hands at his sides. Draco’s chest was heaving. He wanted to chase after Harry. He wanted to slug Blaise. He wanted to scream and maybe cry because the look on Harry’s face made him sick.

“Draco, stop! Fucking calm down,” Blaise said, shaking him. “Take a deep breath. What the hell is wrong with you?”

Draco took a deep, shuddering inhale. Of all the moments for Harry to walk in, that had been the worst. He tore himself away from Blaise’s grip and stalked back to the patio, bracing himself against the railing, his head hanging between his shoulders.

He heard Blaise’s cautious steps behind him. The rustle of his clothes. The scrape of his hand across the back of his neck.

“Draco,” he said carefully. “What’s going on?”

“I fucked up,” Draco mumbled to the ground a mile below, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“What do you mean?” Blaise asked tentatively.

“It was supposed to be fun. I just wanted to beat him. To mess with him a little. I didn’t mean for it to be like this.”

“Like what?” Blaise’s voice was closer.

Draco whirled around and looked at his friend. “I think I’m going mad, Blaise.”

Blaise didn’t say anything, just stood there with a concerned look on his handsome face.

“I can’t stop thinking about him,” Draco admitted, raking a hand through his hair roughly. “It’s constant. All fucking day. I can’t do anything without him there, in my head, just – it’s not what I wanted. It’s not what I meant to happen.”

“Draco, you’re not making sense. What happened?”

Draco swallowed hard. “I think I’m falling for him.”

“Falling for him,” Blaise repeated.

“That’s what I fucking said, isn’t it?” Draco snapped. “It wasn’t on purpose, so don’t give me that fucking look, Blaise. I thought he was fit, and I was bored, and I just…I wanted to fuck him, all right? It was just a game. But then – then it wasn’t a game anymore.”

Blaise scrubbed a hand across his eyes. “Draco. With Harry Potter? Really?”

“Yeah, I know, fuck you.”

“No!” Blaise stepped forward and placed his hand on Draco’s shoulder. “Not because of some stupid shit from school or whatever. I mean because it’s you. And _him._ ”

“What the fuck are you on about?”

“Draco, you’ve been obsessed with Potter since we were kids. You’ve always wanted him, what the hell made you think you could keep this casual?”

Draco startled as Pansy’s words came swirling back into his mind.

“You’re wrong,” he said.

“Am I?” Blaise’s expression was pleading. “I don’t mean to state what I assumed was completely bloody obvious, but you’ve been in love with Harry Potter since you were like eleven, Draco.”

“I hated Potter,” Draco protested.

Blaise’s laugh was disbelieving, shocked. “It’s always a pretty fine line between the two when it comes to you. And maybe that was only because he didn’t want you back. Or so I thought. Fucking hell. Did you really shag Potter?”

Draco nodded solemnly.

“Was he the one wearing my shirt?”

Draco nodded again.

Blaise tipped his head back and sighed to the heavens. “Draco Malfoy, you are a fucking idiot.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“By some great miracle, I think Potter might like you too,” Blaise said with a small smile.

“Not anymore,” Draco sneered.

“I don’t think he would have looked so bloody blindsided if he didn’t. Shit, Draco. I’m sorry. I obviously didn’t know he would just wander into my flat unannounced like that.”

Draco sighed. “Yeah. I know.”

“Are you sorry you threw fruit at me?” Blaise asked.

“Not even a little.”

Blaise chuckled. He folded himself into the nearest lounge chair, tucking his hands behind his head and looking at Draco with equal parts fondness and exasperation.

“So, what are you going to do about it?” he asked.

“Well, I’m out of fruit…” Draco said, sighing dramatically.

“I don’t mean about me, you twat. About Potter.”

“Nothing, I guess,” Draco said with a shrug, sinking down to the ground and stretching his legs out in front of him. The concrete was warm from the sun and scratchy against the backs of his thighs.

“Really?!” Blaise exclaimed. “Nothing? You’re just going to let him go on thinking you used him, move back to America, and pretend this all never happened?”

“That was the idea, yes.”

“Merlin, give me strength,” Blaise huffed. “You really are an idiot.”

Draco just shrugged. There was nothing he could do. And anyway, things between him and Potter had to end sooner or later, maybe it was best that it was sooner? Draco only had one more week left of his parole, what had he expected? That once Harry was no longer required to visit him, that they would stay friends? That Draco could invite him out for dinner and they’d date? Go to bed? Fall in love? Of course not, that was preposterous. And dangerous. And completely unthinkable.

“Listen,” Blaise said, rising to his feet. “I’m going to take a shower. You’re going to put some fucking clothes on. Then we’re going to have a glass of something very strong, smoke all of those filthy cigarettes I brought you, and you’re going to tell me what the fuck is going on and how you plan to fix it.”

“You fix it,” Draco said with a scowl. “You’re the one who fucked it up.”

“Really? Because I feel like if you’d actually used your words and told Potter how you felt, you wouldn’t be in this predicament,” Blaise said, shaking his head and collecting his ruined Prada shirt.

“That’s rich coming from you, Zabini.”

“I know. Which is why you should fucking listen because you’re never going to hear it from me again.”

Draco sighed deeply. “Why do you even care?”

Blaise stepped up to where Draco was sitting and dropped to a crouch. “Because, Draco, you’re my friend. And a miserable bastard. And I think that maybe, just maybe, if Potter can make you happy, you just might have a chance at being an okay bloke.”

Draco rolled his eyes.

“Have you ever tried to be happy?” Blaise asked.

“Who says I’m not happy? And why is everyone climbing up my arsehole about being happy and living my life all of a sudden?”

Blaise frowned. “Who else have you been talking to?”

“Pans,” Draco said, flatly.

“Ah,” Blaise said with a knowing nod. “It’s amazing what love and good sex can do for a miserable bitch like Parkinson.”

“That’s what I said!”

“You should try it sometime, I think. Might be good for you, too.”

“Oh, shut up,” Draco retorted, though it didn’t have any bite. “What about you? Why don’t you fall in love with some Hufflepuff and have a crup and a picket fence and spawn some brats, if you’re so keen.”

Blaise looked at him a little sadly. “Finding love isn’t giving up or giving in, you know. There’s no shame in it. It doesn’t mean you stop being you. It doesn’t make you like them.”

“Them?” Draco asked, confused.

“Your parents.”

Draco wanted to curl in on himself. He wanted to stalk away, slam the door, and not listen to a single word Blaise had to say.

“It’s okay to settle down, Draco,” Blaise said. “It doesn’t mean you’re going to turn into your father. You don’t have to live that life. You can still be you, whoever you want to be. But you don’t have to be alone.”

Draco scoffed. “And what, you think I can just settle down with Harry Potter? Like it’s that fucking easy?”

Blaise tilted his head to one side, his brows pulled down over his eyes. He looked sad. Disappointed.

“I didn’t say it would be easy,” he said. “And it doesn’t have to be Potter. Unless you want it to be. Hell, it’d be pretty ironic and I’m pretty sure Lucius would have a fit, but that isn’t the point. You’ve been running, Draco. You think you’re all on your own, but you aren’t. Potter or not, you’ve got friends.”

Draco shifted uncomfortably where he sat on the ground.

“Friends who want the best for you, because we think you deserve it,” Blaise continued.

“What have I ever done to deserve anything, Blaise? Honestly,” Draco said, fixing his eyes on where his hands were twisted in his lap.

“Well, sometimes I think you deserve a punch in that smart, pretty little mouth of yours – but you’ve had plenty of those,” he said with a smirk. “You’re a clever bloke, Draco. You could do something with your life besides gambling, and running, and pretending you don’t give a fuck about anything or anyone. Whether you like it or not, I know you better than that. Don’t forget that I’ve seen you at your worst, and I still think there’s a lot of hope for you.”

Draco’s smile was small but sincere. “You’ve gone soft on me, Zabini.”

Blaise chuckled. “Maybe so. I honestly thought that this parole would be a blessing for you, and I think I might have been right. I’m glad you came home, Draco. I really hope you stay.”

“I can’t stay. You know that.”

“You can do whatever you want. Just figure out what the hell that is before you start running again.” Blaise straightened and took a long, leisurely stretch. “And put some trousers on, will you?"

Draco tried to fight it, but the smile spread across his face anyway.

“Harry and I drank all your Cristal,” he said.

Blaise’s mouth dropped open. “You bastards!”

“But I left a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape. And I wouldn’t be opposed to a glass of that about now,” Draco said with a waggle of his eyebrows.

“You’re a snob and a lush, Draco Malfoy.”

Draco got to his feet, adjusting his dressing gown, but not before giving Blaise an eyeful. “But you love me anyway. You just told me so.”

“So I did. Now put some pants on, you great wanker.”


	20. In which Harry goes to a party for the free snacks and the Weasleys talk Harry Potter Conspiracy Theories.

Harry tugged at the collar of his dress robes.

“Stop that. You’ll wrinkle them,” Hermione chided, gently pulling his hand away, squeezing it once in hers, and then dropping it at his side.

“I hate these things, ‘Mione. You know that.”

“I know, Harry,” she said. “But we get twice as many donations when you show up. You don’t even have to give a speech this time. Just shake some hands, smile like you aren’t being Crucioed, and it will be over before you know it.”

Harry was forced to attend four fundraisers a year for his organizations. Hermione only made him show up to the biggest ones and excused him from the smaller ones because she said that in close quarters all of Harry’s scowling was a bit off-putting. Harry tried to put on a good face, but he hated the schmoozing, the tinkling classical music, the stingy pours of whisky. For Hermione, he’d do anything, even this – but only four times a year.

Harry could usually count on Ron to act as a buffer. But thanks to a batch of mismeasured love potions at the shop, Ron received a pass from Hermione so he could sort through the absolute havoc the stuff was wreaking on a gaggle of Hogwarts students on summer hols. There was even talk of a fierce dressing-down in the Headmistress’ office. Honestly, Harry thought that sounded a touch more appealing than the evening that stretched in front of him– all stiff clothing and stiffer conversations.

Fortunately, the fundraiser for the Battle of Hogwarts Memorial Fund had a bar, whisky in almost normal-sized portions, and those little stuffed mushrooms with the cheese that Hermione knew he liked.

Harry was huddled by the bar, downing his fifth canape and his third Firewhisky while attempting to avoid the insipid chattering of Mrs Grenilda Greenwich from the Pureblood Ladies Association when he felt a presence at his back, followed by a cool, posh voice.

“Harry Potter, fancy seeing you here.”

Harry turned.

Blaise Zabini wore a sharp suit in a deep purple– one that Harry was sure he’d seen hanging in the penthouse’s vast closet. He looked handsome and unattainable, and Harry tried to keep from snarling at him.

“It’s my organization,” Harry said, his tone clipped.

Zabini dipped his chin in recognition. “Yes, but you hardly ever come to these things.”

“How would you know?”

“Because I _do_ come to these things.”

“I didn’t know that,” Harry grumbled.

“You didn’t?” Blaise’s lips quirked upwards. “You signed the thank-you note for my donation last year.”

“Hermione handles those. I just sign them. But thanks, I guess.”

“Then I suppose I ought to remove it from my autograph book.”

Zabini gestured at the bartender, who refilled his glass with a wave of his wand. Zabini swirled the caramel-coloured scotch in his glass and leaned casually against the bar in a way that appeared both effortless and managed to effectively block Harry’s only escape route.

“I’ll be honest, Potter, I was hoping I’d run into you tonight.”

“That makes one of us,” Harry muttered as his hand tightened around his drink.

Zabini brushed off Harry’s rudeness with nothing more than a twitch of his brow. “I think there has been a misunderstanding between you and me.”

“There’s been no misunderstanding,” Harry said, his tone still a touch too sharp.

“Really? Are you sure about that? Because I seem to recall you appearing in my flat at a rather awkward moment,” Zabini said with a tilt of his head.

Something cold and slimy curled in Harry’s gut. Harry hated Zabini at that moment. He hated the twitch of his lips, the sharpness of his eyes, the casual elegance of his posture. Harry could understand what Draco saw in him. Even he could admit they made a rather handsome pair – cool and aloof in their posh clothes and matching haughty expressions. Harry resisted the urge to tug at the collar of his robes again, suddenly itching and self-conscious. 

“What you do in your house is your business, Zabini,” Harry replied.

“And what about what _you_ do in my house?” Zabini snapped back.

Indignant anger swelled in Harry’s chest and he felt his face flame. He made to push past Zabini but was halted by Zabini’s firm grip on his bicep. Harry’s hand immediately went to the wand holster at his hip. He bit his tongue hard to keep from hexing Zabini and sending him skidding on the seat of his arse into the center of the ballroom.

“That didn’t come out the way I intended,” Zabini said, his expression slightly pained. “I apologize.”

“Whatever,” Harry snapped. “Just let me go.”

Harry yanked his arm from Zabini’s grip and turned to stalk away.

“He’s completely beside himself, you know,” Blaise said to Harry’s back.

Harry hesitated, his jaw tightening. He should have kept walking but found he was frozen to the spot.

“He’s been moping about for days,” Blaise continued. “It’s excruciating to watch.”

“I don’t see what that has to do with me,” Harry said through gritted teeth. 

“Don’t be coy, Potter,” Zabini said with a chuckle, low and deep like melted chocolate. “It has everything to do with you.”

Harry shook his head resolutely and the smirk slipped from Zabini’s face.

“There’s nothing between us, Draco and me,” Zabini said.

“Doesn’t make any difference to me,” Harry said, his tone gruff and entirely too jagged at the edges.

“I feel like it should,” Zabini said, then frowned. “I never took you for a man of cruelty, Potter.”

Harry turned toward Zabini and drew close enough to smell his aftershave. He pitched his voice low to avoid prying ears. “I don’t know what he told you, but it was just a one-time thing. It was nothing. I was drunk, I made a mistake. You can have him.”

Zabini’s expression went soft and a little sad. “But all he wants is you.”

Harry pulled back, startled.

“If it was nothing to you, then it is I who has misunderstood the situation,” Zabini said. “I’ll pass that along to Draco, if only to encourage him to let it go and move on. I don’t like seeing him like this.”

“Like what?”

“ _Hurt_ , Harry.”

It couldn’t be true. Harry couldn’t accept it. Not after what he’d seen. He’d been a complete idiot, practically vibrating through breakfast the morning after his birthday, his mind fixated on apparating to that stupid posh flat, vanishing that fucking silk dressing gown he _knew_ Draco would be flouncing around in, and just ravishing him– fucking him against those floor-to-ceiling windows, making him come on the glass for all of London to see. Harry wanted to punish Draco for the constant fluttering in his chest, for saying everything Harry ever wanted to hear. But instead, he’d looked a fool, stumbling out the lift to see Draco, mostly naked, wrapped around Zabini with his crisp suit and sinful smile. Harry felt sick. He felt humiliated.

Draco had proven himself to be everything Harry feared. The signs were always there, the warnings written clearly on the wall. But Harry wanted to believe there was something to it, to _them_. How could he not? Draco’s words were designed to break down his barriers – his every action planned and curated to carefully take Harry apart. Harry could see it for what it was now with painful, aching clarity.

“It was nothing,” Harry repeated, trying to infuse some steel into his voice.

“It was something to him,” Zabini said flatly.

“Why are you telling me this? What difference does it make to you anyway?” Harry asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion. There was nothing in Zabini’s expression that appeared mirthful or vindictive, but Harry didn't dare trust it.

Zabini sighed. “I’m his friend, Potter And he’s miserable. Maybe it was a mistake for you, but it wasn’t for him. You may not know this, but Draco has wanted you forever. For _years_. It took him some time to see it for what it was, but that’s it.”

Harry shifted the weight between his feet, unsettled. “Does he know you’re telling me this?”

“Certainly not! He’d kill me if he did. Already tried to once, after you came waltzing in.” Zabini studied Harry for a moment. “Was any of it real for you? Or was it really just a mistake?”

Harry chewed the side of his cheek. “That’s none of your business.”

Zabini’s sharp, clever eyes flickered across Harry’s face, searching for something, though Harry couldn’t be sure what. He apparently found it because Zabini’s lips curled into a smile and he held out his hand to Harry.

“It was good seeing you, Potter. I’ll see you at the next one,” he said, nodding toward the ballroom, where the party carried on without them.

Harry shook his hand, hard and brief, and then Zabini turned. 

“And you owe me a new shirt,” Zabini tossed over one shoulder as he slunk away into the crowd.

Harry ordered another drink and tried to make himself appear as unapproachable as possible. It must have worked because the other partygoers gave him a wide berth, and more than a few frightened glances.

Later, Hermione bustled up to Harry, finally telling him it was safe for him to flee home.

“So, how did we do?” Harry asked, exhaustion obvious in his voice.

“Incredible, Harry! We did better than we ever have. I don’t know what you said to Blaise Zabini, but he just about doubled our total donations this year!”

Harry shook his head in mild disbelief. “I didn’t say anything to him, except to fuck off and leave me alone.”

Hermione glared at him, but then patted him on the arm. “Slytherins. I swear, the nastier you are to them, the more they like you. No matter. Shall we go home?”

“Yes, please,” Harry said with relief and followed her into the floo.

****

The following days passed in a blur of wedding preparations, menial cases at work, and nights where Harry fell into bed so exhausted, he didn’t even dream.

He was beginning to wonder why anyone even bothered to get married. What was the point of all the planning and preparing – the flowers, the clothes, the invitations, the seating charts. What did you get from it? A few stressful hours where you drank too much, ate too little, and everyone wanted to take your picture. It sounded like hell to Harry. But, despite the frazzled look in her eyes, Ginny was glowing.

Ian was finally in from Wales and threw himself into the last-minute preparations with so much gusto that even Molly Weasley looked a bit dazed. The Burrow was overrun with helpful siblings and spouses, and there were children constantly underfoot. While Harry loved the commotion, he found himself longing for a little peace and quiet back home.

It was supposed to be a time of celebration, but Harry felt ragged around the edges, worn too thin. Rather than engaging in the long and lengthy argument over the best location for the rose arbor, or offering suggestions as to the proper table to stash Arthur’s belligerent Aunt Rosemary, Harry hovered at the perimeter – present, but removed.

When the arguments between Ginny and Molly reached a fever pitch, Ron and Harry managed to sneak back into the house in hopes of escaping before they started throwing hexes. Ron collapsed into the threadbare sofa with a huff as Harry settled into the chair by the fireplace. 

“Fucking hell, was mine and Hermione’s wedding this bad?” Ron asked, scrubbing a hand across his face.

Harry smiled softly and shook his head. Hermione and Ron were married on a beach in Scotland. Only Harry, Hermione’s Mum and Dad, and Ron’s immediate family were present. Afterward, they all gathered at the Leaky for what was probably the rowdiest, most boisterous parties Harry had ever attended. Everyone was there. Even McGonagall showed up with a bottle of Elven wine with a bow around the neck.

“No,” Harry replied. “Yours was easy.”

“That’s a relief,” Ron said as he let his head fall back against the back of the sofa. “I thought maybe I’d forgotten. I was pretty blissed out that day.”

“That’s the way it should be, I think,” Harry said, and Ron hummed his agreement.

They sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, but Harry was chewing on words.

“Ron,” he asked. “Do you ever regret leaving the Aurors?”

Ron snorted. “Merlin, no. Honestly, I don’t know what the hell I was thinking joining up in the first place. The only reason I ever did any of that fighting dark wizards business was because I had to, because we had to do it together. Didn’t take long for me to figure out that risking my life day in and day out was like taking the shortcut to the grave.”

Ron propped his feet on the coffee table and stretched his long legs. His eyes fluttered shut.

“Why, mate, having second thoughts?” Ron asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“I wouldn’t blame you. It gets old, people trying to murder you all the time.”

Harry chuckled. “Yeah, it really does.”

Ron cracked one eye open, a wrinkle forming across his forehead. “You’re different lately, you know?”

Harry slouched deeper into the cushions and let his head loll against the back of the chair. “Because I’m finally starting to see the downside of getting murdered?”

“Nah. You’ll never get over that. It’s something else.”

“What do you mean?” Harry kept his eyes fixed on the crack in the ceiling.

“I don’t know. You seem…lighter, I guess? I’ll admit, I’m still surprised you finally got rid of that creepy old house. Thought you were going to live there until it rotted around you. Not that I’m not happy for you, I am,” Ron said, opening both his eyes and lifting his head to grin crookedly at Harry. “Hell, I’m ecstatic. I’m just glad I’ll never have to spend another night in that place.” Ron gave a dramatic shudder.

“That makes two of us,” Harry agreed.

Just then, Ginny breezed in with George on her tail. She plopped onto the armrest of the sofa and tipped backward, feet in the air, falling back into the cushions next to Ron with a huff.

“Mum has finally lost her gobstones,” Ginny announced. “She’s totally redoing the seating chart Fleur and I spent all evening putting together.”

George leaned against the mantle. “Ginevra, dear, you know perfectly well, if Aunt Iris and Cousin Beatrix are within spitting distance of each other they’ll be throwing plates before supper is served! I’ll not have the good china ruined!” George said, his voice trilling and shrill, a near-perfect impersonation of Molly Weasley.

Ginny snorted. “I’m starting to understand why you and Hermione eloped, Ron. This is a fucking nightmare.”

“It’s not too late,” Ron said.

“It fucking is, so long as I don’t want to see the wrong end of mum’s wand,” Ginny said, pushing herself to a seated position. She kicked Ron’s legs from the coffee table and replaced them with her own. “So, what are you two gossiping about in here?”

“Harry’s midlife crisis,” Ron said.

Harry scowled. “I’m not having a crisis.”

“It’s because he’s still in love with me. He cries himself to sleep every night because I’m getting married,” Ginny said. “Haven’t you been reading the papers?”

“Oh, is Harry’s love life in the papers again? Remember the one about how Harry was having a secret affair with Charlie and that’s why he and Gin broke up?” George chimed in.

Harry groaned. He remembered when that story came out He couldn’t look Charlie in the face all Christmas dinner that year.

“See, I thought it was because he was actually in love with Hermione and Ginny found out, and now Harry, ‘Mione and I are in some sordid love triangle,” Ron added.

“I’m starting to wonder why I hang around you lot,” Harry said, his face between his hands.

“Cheer up, Harry,” George said brightly, ruffling Harry’s hair as he meandered off toward the kitchen. “They’re only speculating because you’re so bloody boring.”

Ginny narrowed her eyes. “I don’t know. Somethings up with him.”

“That’s why I was just saying,” Ron agreed, nodding.

“Would you all just quit it? Nothing is _up_.” Harry grumbled.

“Something is definitely up,” Ginny said resolutely.

“He’s talking about quitting the Aurors,” Ron added.

Ginny clapped her hands together. “ _Finally_.”

“I’m right here, you know. With two fully functioning ears,” Harry deadpanned.

“That’s up for debate, Harry. We’ve been telling you to quit that bloody department for years,” Ron said.

Harry sighed. “You really think I should?”

“We think you should do whatever makes you happy,” Ginny said.

George returned with a sandwich in one hand. He dropped onto the sofa next to his sister, crowding her against Ron’s.

“I’d guess whoever left those teeth marks on your neck is doing a fine enough job,” George mumbled through a mouthful of turkey.

Ron and Ginny swung around so fast Harry nearly recoiled. Ginny was on him immediately, yanking at his collar.

“Hey, get off!” He grumbled, shoving her away.

“He’s right! Harry’s got a love bite!” Ginny exclaimed.

“I do not!” Harry batted away Ginny’s hands.

“You do, mate. I can see it from here,” Ron said with a smirk.

Harry responded by buttoning up his shirt to his chin.

“So, who is she?” George asked with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

Ginny and Ron shot each other a knowing look and Harry wished he could sink into the ground and disappear.

“No one,” Harry mumbled.

“I’m going to find out, Harry,” Ginny said, brushing George’s crumbs from the seat of the sofa to sit cross-legged and cross-armed. “Someone knows something, and it’s only a matter of time until I figure out who.”

“She probably will. You know how she can get,” Ron agreed. “Worse than Hermione when she’s got a bee in her bonnet.”

“You all are terrible, and I hate you,” Harry said. “I’m going to help Molly with the seating chart.”

“Your funeral, Harry,” George called after him. “Just tell us who we ought to send our condolences to?”

“Nice try,” Ginny said, patting her brother on the shoulder. 

  
  



	21. In which Draco receives an unexpected guest who wastes top-shelf scotch and demands gifts.

Harry didn’t show up for Draco’s final parole meeting. Fortunately, neither did Briggs. Instead, a petite witch with long dark hair and flint black eyes met Draco at twelve o’clock sharp. She efficiently ran the spells on his wand, nodded her head when she discovered nothing untoward, removed Harry’s tracking spell, and handed Draco a stack of paperwork to sign. He scrawled his signature across the final page and as she collected her belongings, Draco mustered his courage.

“So, where’s Potter?” he asked, maintaining his practiced casual inflection.

“Harry Potter is no longer with the DMLE,” she said succinctly as she straightened her robes and tucked the parchment into her briefcase with a wave of her wand.

“What?” Draco gasped, caught off guard.

“He resigned from his position last week to pursue other avenues,” she said. “There was an announcement. Weren’t you aware?”

He wasn’t, obviously. Draco had stopped looking at papers and magazines altogether, what with the running commentary on the daily happenings of one Harry Potter – who apparently had nothing better to do than walk around looking fit and frowning at cameras.

“What avenues?” Draco asked.

“I don’t know, and even if I did, I’m not at liberty to say. Good day, Mister Malfoy. Try and stay out of trouble.” And with that, she got into the lift and was gone.

Draco sunk into Blaise’s leather sofa.

Harry had quit his job. A hysterical little laugh bubbled from deep inside Draco’s chest. Harry had _finally_ quit his job. Draco wished he could have seen the look on Robards' face when Harry turned in his resignation. Gods, he bet Harry did it with such flourish – probably scowling fetchingly as he thunked his badge onto Robards desk, while everyone sat dumbfounded as the saviour of the bloody world just swanned out the front door. 

The lift dinged again, and Draco sat up. He expected to see the wee Auror return with her briefcase and more paperwork. He did not expect Ginevra Weasley.

She was far taller than Draco remembered – slim, wiry, and quite pretty, even with all the freckles and the nasty snarl on her face. She stalked right up to Draco, crossed her arms over her chest, leaned into one hip, and leveled Draco with a rather impressive glare that immediately reminded him of Harry.

“Miss Weasley, it’s been an age. Did we have an appointment? Because it’s usually considered exceedingly rude to just walk into someone’s flat without their permission.”

“We need to talk,” she said.

Draco blinked, astonished. “Is that so?”

“Let’s start with a drink.”

Draco arched one brow. “Drinking at half noon? Why do I get the impression I’m not going to enjoy this conversation?”

Her expression tightened. “I’m just hoping it makes talking to you more tolerable. Make it something nice, Malfoy.”

Entirely dumbfounded, Draco ushered her into the sitting area, where he filled two tumblers with scotch. He turned around just in time to see Weasley sweep right past him and onto the patio, where she put her hands on her hips and looked out across the skyline.

“Blimey, this is one hell of a view,” she announced.

“Quite,” Draco said, holding out the glass of amber liquid to her from as far away as he could physically manage.

She snatched the glass from his grip and spun to face him. She sipped once, her face still pinched and angry.

“Is there something I can help you with, or did you just come here for a drink and to glare at me?”

Weasley snorted. “You’ve got some nerve, Malfoy.”

“What did I do now?” he snapped, throwing up his hands and nearly spilling his drink. “If this is about Potter, don’t worry. I’ve stayed away. I won’t be bothering him anymore. I have some pride, after all.”

“So it’s true. You _have_ been seeing Harry.”

Draco scowled. He hadn’t meant to out himself entirely.

Weasley tossed back the rest of her scotch and Draco tried desperately not to roll his eyes. It was a horrible waste of top-shelf liquor. Honestly, between Harry and the Weaslette, Draco had a mind to assume all Gryffindors were completely tasteless.

She reached into the back pocket of her jeans and smashed a cream-coloured envelope adorned with gold script against Draco’s chest.

“What’s this?” he asked warily, holding it between two fingers.

“An invitation to my wedding.”

“Gods why?”

She pursed her lips. “Because Harry will be there.”

Draco just shook his head in disbelief.

“Because Harry will be there,” she said again. “And he is an idiot, and I’m just hoping that maybe you’re slightly less of one, although I’m having my doubts.”

“I beg your pardon, but I’m starting to wonder if I’m concussed. Or dreaming. Because I have absolutely no idea what’s going on here.”

Weasley’s face went red as her hair. “I love Harry. He is very, _very_ special to me. But he is also very bad at doing what's best for himself, and I, once again, find myself in a position to…shall we say, force his hand.”

Draco remained silent.

Weasley exhaled noisily, clearly struggling. “Harry’s been different the past few weeks. I didn’t know what it was at first, but something changed. He was making choices for the first time, ones that we have tried to get him to consider for years. He was smiling more. He got a new house. Quit his job. Was talking to us, I mean really talking to us, for the first time in ages. He’s a private person, always has been, and I didn’t expect him to just tell me what was going on. It took a fair amount of detective work, and I had to drag it out of Luna of all people, but then I find out that _you_ have been spending time with him. That _you_ encouraged him to do all these things, and for some insane reason, _he listened_.”

“I see.”

“Harry is…stubborn.”

“No shit,” Draco drawled with a roll of his eyes.

“Shut up, Malfoy, I’m talking. Harry is stubborn and headstrong, and he doesn’t listen to anybody. But he listened to you. I don’t get it, but maybe I don’t have to. I couldn’t get to him. Ron couldn’t get to him. Hermione couldn’t get to him. But you did. I don’t know about this weird thing the two of you have, but if it makes Harry happy, and makes him decide to live his fucking life for a change, then, well, I’d be a shit friend if I didn't make sure he has it.”

“What do you want me to do?” Draco asked, still completely bewildered.

“Go to my wedding,” Weasley said. “Wear something nice. Be polite. Don’t ruin it or you won’t leave with both your bollocks attached.”

“Oh, is that’s all?” Draco let the sarcasm colour his voice.

“Tell Harry how you feel.”

Draco’s lip curled. “And what do you know of how I feel?”

“I saw the photo. The one you gave him for his birthday. That was you, wasn’t it?”

Draco’s cheeks flamed. Gods, he’d been so bloody obvious, it was humiliating. But he nodded. He wanted to strangle her for butting her stupid ginger head into his business, for making him feel like right arse – but she was giving him a chance. She was giving him one last chance with Harry. It was a gamble, but one he’d be a fool not to take.

“I don’t know where the fuck you got that, but _bloody hell_ ,” Weasley said.

He scowled.

She shook her head and put her empty glass on the patio table. “Don’t hurt him.”

The idea that Draco could hurt Harry Potter was preposterous. On the other hand, the likelihood that Draco would make it out unscathed seemed slimmer by the moment. But Draco just nodded once, slowly.

Her eyes narrowed briefly, but then she huffed and turned on her heel, leaving the way she came.

“Oh, and I expect a wedding gift. Something expensive,” she called out as the lift doors closed.

“Naturally,” Draco mumbled.

****

It was over. Draco was free. He should have been happy about it, he should have been booking his portkey back to America, or perhaps to France to visit Mother, or maybe even a brief holiday in Greece. A holiday did sound rather nice.

But Draco wasn’t happy, and he wasn’t booking a portkey. He was sitting by Blaise’s pool in his shorts and sunglasses beneath a fortress of sun-protection charms, chain-smoking and staring blankly at the skyline. The invitation to Weasley’s wedding sat on the table next to his lounge chair and every few minutes, Draco would pick it up, read it again, scoff, and toss it back onto the table.

Draco had just thrown the invitation down for what was probably the tenth time when Blaise came swanning onto the patio, just home from whatever terribly important meeting he’d attended, and dressed in an orange suit so bright it made Draco’s eyes water.

“What on earth are you wearing?” Draco asked, peering over the tops of his sunglasses.

“It’s McQueen.”

“It’s offensive.”

Blaise clucked his tongue. “It’s posh and you know it. Not my fault you’re hungover again and can’t see straight.”

“I’m not hungover, Blaise. I’m bereft. I’m crestfallen. I’m suffering. Look at me, do you see me _suffering_?”

Blaise looked at Draco, stretched on the lounge, chest bare and lit cigarette hanging from his lips. He rolled his eyes. “Let me guess, Potter didn’t show up for your parole meeting.”

“Of course he didn’t.”

“Because he quit.”

Draco frowned. “How do you know that?”

Blaise spun and walked back into the flat. He returned moments later with a day-old Prophet which he dropped into Draco’s lap. The headline read: _Harry Potter Quits Aurors. What’s next for the Wizarding World’s Favourite Son?_

Draco squinted at the page. Potter looked quite handsome in the picture, dressed in formal robes and an uncomfortable expression, flanked by Granger who held him protectively by the arm. Draco tossed the paper to the ground.

Blaise heaved a sigh. “I saw him, you know.”

Draco’s eyes cut to Blaise and he held himself as still as possible.

“Did you?” Draco asked, inspecting his nails, valiantly refraining from leaping from his chair and shaking his friend, as much as he wanted to wrinkle that god awful suit.

“I did. At the Memorial Fundraiser. The one you wouldn’t go to with me. Because of all the suffering.”

“You didn’t tell me you saw him.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Blaise admitted.

Draco recrossed his ankles. He scraped the butt of his cigarette on the ground and lit another.

“So,” Draco said casually, exhaling a cloud of smoke to obscure the eagerness in his face. “How was he?”

“He was a bit of an arsehole, to be honest.”

Draco snorted and tried so hard to tamp down on his smirk that it made his cheek ache.

“Merlin, only you would find that endearing,” Blaise said and dropped into the other lounge chair.

Because yeah, he sort of did. Draco had no doubt Harry was surly at those sorts of functions. He hated it when people twittered around him like that. If Blaise managed to corner him, it meant that Harry was left unattended and without a buffer, poor bastard.

“Well,” Draco said with a wild gesture of his hand. “Did you speak to him?”

“I might have.”

Draco rounded on Blaise. “You _might_ have? What, you don’t recall whether you talked to Harry bloody Potter? I swear to god, Blaise, my patience is hanging by a thread as it is, so would you just fucking tell me? Or shall we string it along a bit more and give me an excuse to hex you? Because I am _ready_ , I am _aching_ for a reason to hex you.”

Blaise threw up his hands. “Yes! Fucking hell, I talked to him.”

“About?!”

“You, of course! You mad bastard.”

Draco snatched his sunglasses from his face so he could look at Blaise properly. “You didn’t,” he snarled.

“What the fuck was I supposed to do. You’re clearly not going to do anything about it, beyond rolling around feeling sorry for yourself. It’s pathetic and a little embarrassing.”

“Well fuck you too,” Draco muttered and took a long drag on his cigarette.

“I’m going to level with you, Draco. Potter isn’t going to show up. He isn’t just going to appear in the flat again. He’s ticked and indignant, and he’s convinced you played him. If you want him, then you’re going to have to get off that pretty arse and do something about it.”

Draco clucked and winked. “It is pretty, isn’t it?”

“Save it, you slag. Think about it, Draco. He’s a ruddy Gryffindor –”

“So about as perceptive as a brick wall?” Draco interjected.

“Got it in one. Make a gesture. Something grand. Something unexpected,” Blaise said.

“Like showing up to a bloody Weasley wedding, perhaps?” Draco said and snagged the invitation from the table, flipping it with two fingers towards Blaise.

Blaise caught the paper, his frown deepening as he scanned it. “Where did you get this?”

“The Weaslette brought it by this afternoon.”

“She was here? In my flat? Fucking hell, I’m going to have to have a word with Dominique at the front desk. This is getting ridiculous. Am I going to come home to find my sitting room converted to the Gryffindor common room?”

“Would probably be an improvement. I don’t know where you found your decorator, but they should be arrested and held accountable for their crimes against good taste. Honestly, Blaise, it’s hideous. Does it actually work on those dimwitted bimbos you bring home?”

“You’re an ungrateful little wretch, you know. Sitting around my pool, soiling my sheets, leaving your nasty cigarette butts everywhere.” Blaise poked at a couple of still smoking filters on the ground with the tip of his shoe.

“If you want one so badly, just say so,” Draco said, holding out the pack.

“You take to Muggle bad habits like a duck to water,” Blaise said but plucked one from the box anyway. They smoked in silence for a moment.

“You know what I’m going to have to do next, don’t you?” Draco said with a waggle of his eyebrows.

Blaise smiled. “Pick me up a new shirt while you’re there. I don’t think Potter has any intention of replacing the one he ruined.”

****

Pansy agreed to meet Draco at Harvey Nichols in Knightsbridge. Draco didn’t even entertain the idea of wearing robes to the wedding, though it would have been the more traditional choice. And it came as no great shock to Draco when Pansy confirmed his assumptions that the Weaslette’s wedding would be anything but traditional, particularly since she’d gone and gotten engaged to a Muggleborn.

“Could you imagine being the poor sod to link himself to Ginevra Weasley after she split with Harry Potter?” Draco asked idly, comparing a selection of pocket squares to the undertones of a Balmain necktie.

“Could you imagine being Ginevra Weasley attempting to date anyone after dumping Harry Potter? Circe’s tits, I bet she couldn’t get a wizard to come within spitting distance for a year,” Pansy said.

Draco hummed his agreement and held up a beautiful pale grey jacket. “What do you think of this?”

Draco hated shopping for a suit off the rack, but there wasn’t time to go bespoke, and with the help of a proper tailor, it would be more than passable.

But Pansy wasn’t looking at the jacket. She was looking at Draco, her eyes calculating, flickering across his face like lamplight.

“And what about you, Draco? What do _you_ think about dating Harry Potter?”

He hadn’t outright _told_ Pansy why he was planning to attend a Weasley wedding. He simply stated that he would appreciate her keen eye in selecting a suit for the occasion, and he promised to buy her new Jimmy Choo’s and lunch at Le Gavoroche. He hoped it would manage to buy her silence, but Draco feared she’d seen right through him. He wanted to scoff, to deflect her questions, but Pansy Parkinson was worse than a pit bull when she locked her jaws around a bit of gossip.

“Yes, well, it does come with its risks, I suppose,” Draco admitted.

She nodded once, slowly.

“But I daresay the rewards outweigh the risks,” Draco continued.

Pansy’s brow twitched. “Rewards?”

Draco smirked wickedly at her. “Oh, darling, he sucks cock like you wouldn’t _believe_. I don’t even want to know where he learned to do that, but I will gladly reap the rewards often and with enthusiasm. And you should see him naked,” Draco clutched his chest and let his eyes flutter shut. “He does wandless magic in _bed_ , Pans, it’s unreal”

“You talk about him like he’s some kind of sex toy,” she said with a roll of her eyes.

Draco’s smirk faltered. He cleared his throat. He studied the rows of ties on the rack, picked at their seams gently with the fingers of one hand. “Yes, well. I suppose he is rather lovely when he laughs. He’s not the most horrid dancer. He’s obnoxiously selfless. And I find it immensely pleasing when he does as I say.”

Draco glanced up to see corners of Pansy’s lips twitch and her eyes soften. She reached out and ran her fingers over the sleeve of the jacket Draco held limply in one hand.

“It’s a beautiful jacket. Will bring out your eyes. But you should skip the tie,” she said, and with the tip of one sharp fingernail, flicked the collar of Draco’s shirt, unbuttoned a touch too low, as always. “Just wouldn’t be _you_.”

“A tart?”

“Exactly,” she said with a wink.

Draco ended up buying the suit jacket and the trousers to match, along with a fresh, white Givenchy shirt with silver buttons. He and Pansy decided to walk to lunch. It was a bit too warm for Draco’s liking, but it felt nice to be out of the flat and not alone, for a change.

London really was quite invigorating. Draco liked the bustling crowds of Muggle tourists with their cameras, the teetering red double-decker busses, the constant honking of horns, the distant wail of sirens. Draco stayed in cities most of the time, when he wasn’t with Mother, but he never even considered London long term. It was off-limits for so many reasons, but now that he was here, he found he was quite enjoying himself. He supposed England did have its perks.

Lunch was fabulous. Draco and Pansy nibbled from the Plateau de Fromages Affines and drank Domaine Gavoty Cotes de Provence Rose. They made scathing remarks under their breath about the shoes on the Muggle in the alarming purple dress, and tittered over the size of the mustache on the paunchy man with the waistcoat and watch chain. Pansy was a proper bitch and Draco felt wonderfully well-matched. He realized he’d missed things like this – shopping and drinks with friends, brunches, nights at the pub.

They’d barely made it halfway through their third glass of wine when Draco excused himself and stepped outside for a cigarette. Filter clamped between his teeth and smoke curling into his hair, Draco fished his mobile from his pocket. He scanned through the few numbers he kept saved and when he found the one he sought, he plucked the cigarette from his mouth with two fingers and pressed ‘send.’ The phone barely rang once before it was picked up.

_“Draco! Darling boy, how are you?”_

“Nellie, love, I’m going to need a favour.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on [Tumblr](https://the-sinking-ship.tumblr.com/) for updates!


	22. In which Ginny gets married and receives a Vitamix

The day of the wedding was chaos for everyone except Ginny. By noon, she'd locked herself in her room with a bottle of champagne and her dress and didn't reemerge until fifteen minutes before the ceremony was slated to begin, when she covertly opened the door and yanked Harry in by his shirtsleeve.

Harry stumbled through the doorway to find himself standing in front of his friend, who was decked in a floor-length white dress, with her lip clamped between her teeth and her hands knotted together. Harry could count on one hand the number of times he'd seen Ginny in a dress, and more than half of those barely grazed her thighs, which was lovely — but this was a proper _gown._

"Holy hell, Gin," Harry said as soon as he found his voice. "You look beautiful."

A blush tinged her cheeks.

"Oh, shut up," she said, averting her eyes, but she was smiling. "You really think so?"

Harry nodded emphatically because she really did. Her hair was pulled up at the neck and fell around her face in soft, rose gold tendrils. She wore hardly any makeup, like usual, but something about her just glowed.

"You look nice too," she said, cuffing him on the shoulder with her fist. "I still would have preferred the dress, but this is good too."

"You went with blue. Blue was never really my colour."

"Prefer green then?" she said with a waggle of her eyebrows.

Harry narrowed his eyes. "Green is alright, I guess."

Harry wanted to ask what the hell she was hinting at, but Ginny turned to the mirror in the corner of the room and sighed deeply, adjusting the straps of her dress.

"I'm really fucking nervous, Harry," she said.

"You are?" Harry couldn't remember Ginny Weasley ever admitting to being nervous about anything. She was usually so fierce, so fearless. It was something Harry always admired in her.

"All those people staring at me. What the fuck was I thinking?" she said, wringing her hands.

"You play professional Quidditch, Gin. Thousands of people watch you. It's kind of your job."

"Yeah, but not like _this_." She gestured to the dress, the bouquet of white lilies wrapped in blue twine on the table, the window, out which Harry could see dozens of people, mostly Weasleys, milling around. Harry understood what she meant.

"But you love Ian, right?" he said.

"Gods, yes," Ginny replied without hesitation.

"And you want to marry him?"

"I really fucking do."

"Then the rest is just details. Go stand there in front of that lucky bastard, tell everyone how gaga you are over him, eat some cake, drink until the room spins, and you're done. Easy."

"Easy," she said with a smile. She lifted a hand to his cheek and Harry held it in his own.

"You ready to do this?" he asked.

"Yeah," she sighed. "I guess."

"Good, because we're late. Your mum is probably having a fit."

He took her hand and they headed down the stairs, where a group of twittering bridesmaids in sky blue dresses gathered. Ron, George, and Arthur were there as well, tugging at the collars of their tuxes.

Ginny paused and turned to Harry.

"Harry, try not to hate me, okay?"

"I could never hate you," he said because really, he couldn't.

"You say that now, but—" she hesitated. "I did something. It might have been a bit impulsive. But—yeah. Just, try not to be angry. It is my wedding day, after all. You aren't allowed."

"Ginny," Harry said, his voice low and concerned. "What did you do?"

Ginny didn't elaborate. She kissed him once on the cheek, smiled, and joined the crowd at the bottom of the stairs, where they fluffed her hair and her gown, ooh-ing and ahh-ing. Then the music started, everyone was lining up, and it was all happening.

Harry walked arm and arm down the aisle with Ian's sister, Siobhan, who patted his hand reassuringly and looked far lovelier in the blue dress than Harry would have. 

Harry spent more than his fair share of time standing before large crowds of people. But for once, the attention wasn't on him in the slightest — which was especially good because Harry spent the entire ceremony covertly dabbing his eyes. Harry always cried at weddings. Ginny said it was because he was a pathetic sap. Hermione said it was because he had a big heart. But there was just something about announcing your love it in front of everyone that messed Harry up and turned him into a damp-eyed puddle of goo.

When the ceremony ended, everyone cheered as Ian and Ginny kissed passionately (and with a bit more tongue than was probably appropriate), then everyone was swarming the bar and congratulating the happy couple. Harry couldn't stop smiling. He hugged George, clapped Bill and Charlie on the shoulders, accepted a kiss on the cheek from Fleur. He let Molly squeeze the breath from him as she shook him back and forth, her eyes scrunched shut and her cheeks cherry red.

He almost forgot about Ginny's warning. That was until Harry saw Draco Malfoy standing at the bar, sipping champagne with Luna and Parkinson, wearing the sharpest dove grey suit Harry had ever seen.

He looked stunning, straight-backed and poised, his posture haughty but his face smiling and warm as the girls laughed at something he'd said.

Harry stood frozen in the middle of the yard as the party swirled around him. He was pretty sure someone pounded him on the back (probably Ron), and someone else ruffled his hair (definitely George), but he didn't acknowledge them.

What was Draco doing there, looking natural and comfortable, just standing in the Weasley's garden like he belonged?

As if drawn by Harry's stare, Draco turned and saw him. He lifted his champagne flute in salute and although he returned to his conversation, his eyes flicked back to Harry again and again.

Arthur descended on Harry and attempted to pull him into a conversation, but Harry was only half listening. He smiled tightly and nodded at something about spark plugs and the mysterious nature of the USB cable. But try though he might, he couldn't stop wondering what the hell Draco was doing there and why he was trying so desperately to ignore Harry.

After about the one-hundredth time Harry was caught staring, he saw Draco roll his eyes and excuse himself from his conversation. Draco snagged a second glass of champagne from a floating tray and walked towards him. Arthur drifted away, likely realising his audience was otherwise distracted.

"You look like you could use a drink," Draco said, his voice deep and smooth as velvet.

Harry eyed the glass in Draco's outstretched hand.

"I don't know," he said. "I recently drank a bit too much champagne. Nasty hangover."

Draco chuckled. "I'm sure even you can manage one glass."

Harry took the flute from him, mindful not to let their fingers touch. "Careful, I'll start dancing."

"Merlin, save us." Draco looked dramatically to the heavens. Then something in him settled and turned a little shy. He stared down into his champagne and then up and Harry through his lashes.

"That's a lovely suit, Harry. Whose closet did you steal this one from?"

"Mm, had it made. Ginny insisted. Said the Harpies t-shirt with the hole in the armpit probably wasn't appropriate."

"Clever girl. Very nice work," he said. Harry thought he might reach out and touch him, but Draco's fingers only tightened on the stem of his glass.

"What are you doing here?" Harry asked.

"Oh, did you think I was here to see you?"

"The thought had occurred to me," Harry replied.

"Goodness, no. The Weaslette and I are _such_ good friends. I wouldn't miss her blessed union for the world." Draco's tone was dry, but he continued to avoid eye contact.

"So this _was_ Ginny's doing then?" Harry said with a sigh. She always was one to meddle.

Draco quirked a brow. "She accosted me, you know. Barged right in – something the lot of you seem to have a habit of doing — drank my scotch, threatened my virility, and then had the nerve to demand a wedding gift. Something expensive, specifically."

"What did you get her?"

"Vitamix," Draco said with a smirk.

"A what?"

"A sort of Muggle blender. Very pricey. She'll have absolutely no idea what to do with it."

"Brilliant," Harry chuckled. "She'll hate it."

The festivities carried on around them and silence settled as they stood shoulder to shoulder. There was laughter, the clink of glasses, the pop of champagne bottles — but it felt like they were in their own little bubble, as it so often did.

"So, did Gin mention anything else when she bust down your door?" Harry asked, twirling his glass of undrunk champagne between his fingers.

"Mm," Draco hummed, his eyes still downcast. "She said you were a pathetic mess, crying and pining over me."

"She did not!" Harry exclaimed, mortified. He wouldn't put it past her. Ginny did delight in embarrassing Harry at any opportunity. She said it was payback for impact all the unfortunate press had on her love life.

Draco finally raised his eyes, and Harry found them full of mirth.

"No," he admitted. "But did you?"

"Cry? Sorry to disappoint, but no."

"Maybe just a little? You were blubbering plenty up there during the ceremony," Draco drawled. "What about the pining? There must have been a little of that, at least."

"You wish, Malfoy."

Draco sighed, a small smile curling the corner of his lips. "You're right, Harry. I do."

Harry frowned, unsure how to respond to Draco's candidness.

"You know," Draco continued. "I had my final parole meeting last week."

"I did," Harry admitted.

"You weren't there."

"No."

"Your replacement was rather lovely. Very professional. Didn't hex me or insult me or drink terrible tea. Bit less scowling and not quite as easy on the eyes, but I made do."

"That's good."

Draco fixed his silver eyes on Harry's. "Did you quit the DMLE, Harry?"

Harry exhaled through his nose. "Yeah. Yeah, I did."

Draco nodded once and smiled — a small, secret thing. "Good for you. So, what's next?"

"Haven't decided. How about you?"

Draco inclined his head and the question hung in the air between them. "Well, that depends."

"On what?" Harry asked.

"On whether this bloke I fancy wants to see me again."

"This bloke, hm?"

"He's totally gone on me, you see. But he walked in on something and drew some entirely ridiculous conclusions that are completely false and I... well, I didn't know what to say to him." Draco's eyes scanned Harry's face. "I suppose I couldn't believe he'd want anything to do with me — which is preposterous because I'm rich and clever and quite good looking."

Draco winked and Harry couldn't stifle his chuckle.

"But I reckoned, perhaps, if he'd be willing to go to dinner with me, I'd stick around," Draco said.

"And that's all you want? Dinner?"

"Oh, Harry," he said, and Harry shivered at the ragged way he spoke his name. "I want a hell of a lot more than dinner. But I assumed demanding a snog in the broom closet might not go over as well."

Draco was smiling, and although it was all haughty arrogance on the outside, there was something uncertain in his eyes.

Harry set down his champagne glass. "And how long are you staying? Until Zabini kicks you out? Until something better comes along?"

Draco cleared his throat. The cocky smile faded from his face.

"About that," he said, his eyes flicking up to Harry's, then dropping to his shoes. "I — ah — I got a flat."

Harry just stared.

"Here," he continued. "In London. It's not as nice as your house, of course, although it suits me. It's only a rental. But it will be good to have a place of my own, for a change."

"You got a flat. In England."

"It would appear so."

"You're staying?" Harry asked, baffled.

"Indefinitely, I'm afraid."

"Really. That's — I — it isn't what I expected," Harry admitted. 

Draco sighed. "Perhaps I'm hedging my bets here, Harry, because I can't promise this won't go spectacularly arse up. I'm no good at relationships. I don't have a lot of practice. But with you, I'd like to try."

"You want to date me?"

Draco's face twisted. "Merlin, are you trying to torture me on purpose? This is absolutely brutal. Yes. Harry. I'd like to date you. Hence the asking you to dinner bit, if you recall that — and I sincerely hope you do since it only occurred mere moments ago. Are you touched in the head or are you just hoping I'll beg?"

"You'd beg?" Harry teased. "Now, that sounds intriguing."

"You are a cruel man, Harry Potter. But yes, for you, I'll beg." Draco's lips twitched, a ghost of a sly smile playing at the corners of his mouth. It made heat pool in Harry's gut and he licked his lips, watching as Draco's eyes darkened and followed the movement of his tongue.

Harry crossed his arms over his chest and squared his stance. "Let's hear it then," he said gesturing with one hand.

Draco fixed him with an overly earnest expression. "Please, oh please, Harry Potter, have dinner with me next week. I promise to take you somewhere suitably nice, but not so nice that you feel uncomfortable, even though I do _so_ love watching you squirm." Draco reached out and ran Harry's tie between his middle and forefinger. "I promise to let you wear whatever you like, unless it's terrible, in which case I claim veto power." He leaned in close. "I promise I'll make fun of your stupid hair and your hideous glasses, even though, secretly, I'm quite fond of them. And if you have dinner with me, I assure you I will be charming, and painfully handsome, and will probably try to suck your cock in the toilets because I've yet to have the chance to do that and I'm absolutely gagging for it."

"Oh, is that all?" Harry choked.

Draco took a step closer until they were almost chest to chest. He bent forward and spoke close enough to Harry's ear that he could feel his champagne-sweet breath.

"If you will give me a chance, I promise to make you laugh as often as I make you scream. I'll never judge you unless you've done something to deserve it. I'll take you to places you've never been — and yes, I mean that both literally and sexually. We can drink Chianti in Florence and sake in Tokyo. We'll walk the Champs-Élysées and wander Times Square. And I will fuck you in every single one of those places, in horrible, filthy ways, and will very likely brag about it endlessly to anyone who will listen."

Harry just stood there, feeling flushed and slightly dumbfounded. "I'm not sure if you're terrible at begging or amazing at it."

"I'm amazing and you know it," Draco said as he withdrew and patted Harry on the cheek.

"But why?"

"Why? What do you mean, _why?_ " Draco asked. And there was that look again — the one that implied Harry was being an idiot.

"I mean, why me, why now?" Harry said.

Draco threw up his hands and then dropped his face into one palm. "I don't know how much more plainly I can state this, so do listen carefully. I like you. Kind of a lot, as it turns out. I thought I'd made that quite clear. The only thing that isn't clear, is how you feel about me. Now, don't be cruel, Harry. Either put me out of my misery or let's give this a try."

"You're miserable?" Harry remembered what Blaise told him at the fundraiser. He couldn't imagine Draco Malfoy feeling heartbroken over anyone. He'd assumed Draco would patch over his wounded pride and find someone else to play with — but now, Harry wondered if he'd misjudged him, if the heated looks and tender gestures weren't a sham. He didn't mean to be so suspicious; it was simply that, for Harry, everything had a price.

"Christ on a cracker, Harry!" Draco exclaimed. "I am at a Weasley wedding! This might be the bravest thing I've ever done. I've walked willingly and unarmed into the lion's den, and you're still floundering about whether you think I'm _serious_? I am not a patient man, but for you, Harry, I have tried. To be this straightforward is honestly so painfully unnatural for me that I'm about ready to spew this bottom-shelf champagne on my very expensive Italian leather shoes. So, could you please do me a favour and save me the embarrassment and the trip to the cobbler, and make up your mind?"

Harry's face cracked into a wide grin. "Now, there's the sort of begging I was expecting."

"You're impossible."

"Yeah, but you like me. You even said it."

"I'm beginning to think I've made a horrible mistake. Forget it, I'm going home."

"No, please don't go," Harry said, laughing as he grabbed Draco by the arm. "Okay, let's try it. Dating, or whatever."

Draco paused, his expression warring between blinding brightness and wariness. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I — I think that would be good."

Draco crowded against him, and Harry was momentarily lost in the citrus and warm amber smell of his cologne. "I'd snog you right now if I didn't think I'd get my bollocks hexed off by the nearest Weasley."

"Probably wise."

Draco's smile turned wicked. "So, your place or mine?"

"Not right now, you twat!"

"Come _on,_ Harry! I've made my grand gesture — it was excruciating, I'll have you know. I think I deserve a reward."

"I'm the Best Man! I can't just leave, not yet," Harry exclaimed.

"Technically, Potter, you're the Maid of Honour."

Harry narrowed his eyes. "Why do I feel that you and Ginny would get on better than I'd like?"

"Why? Because we are diabolical, good-looking, and enjoy taking the piss out of you? Honestly, Harry, it's just so _easy._ "

"Yep. That'd be why."

"I daresay you might be right. Alright, I'll be patient. But this is the last time," Draco said, shaking a finger at Harry.

Harry grabbed his fist, kissed the inside of his wrist, and watched as Draco's face softened and his mouth twisted as he tried to tamp down on his smile.

"Just a little longer," Harry promised.

****

They made it through dinner, but just barely. The bridal party pulled Harry away, which left Draco to fend for himself. In some cruel twist of fate (which had Ginny's name written all over it), Draco was seated at the table with Arthur's belligerent aunt Rosemary. Whenever Harry looked up, it was to find Draco in a deteriorating state of distress that began with alarmed frowning and devolved into him with his chair pushed back six feet from the table and his head in hands. He shot heated glances at Harry all evening that were neither subtle nor covert. Harry felt the flush rise in his cheeks each time, which only seemed to encourage Draco.

Cake was cut and consumed before Harry finally got a chance to escape the giggling bridesmaids and Molly's frequent teary-eyed hugging. He abandoned his drink and left the table to go in search of Draco, but Draco found him first, snagging him by the arm and dragging him away from the swarm of drunken party guests.

"Are you quite finished?" he snapped, accent sharp. "Because if I am required to sit through another story of childhood holidays from that dreadful woman with the bird nest fascinator, I'll choke myself with the garlands. And also, you smell fucking heavenly and look far fitter in a suit than I could have ever imagined. To be entirely honest, Harry, I've had too much champagne and I've been hard for hours just watching you."

Harry laughed as Draco pressed his nose against Harry's throat.

"Where's the nearest loo?" Draco said with his teeth at Harry's ear. "We're commandeering it immediately. I hope your silencing charms are strong, because we're going to make a lot of noise."

A pleased flush burned in Harry's cheeks. "I'd rather take you home."

Draco groaned. "God, forget everything I ever said about you being an idiot, because that's the most brilliant idea you've ever had."

"Mine then?" Harry asked.

"Certainly. I'd like to see what a mess you've made of the place without my guidance."

"Oh, I should probably tell you. I went with red for the kitchen, and I think you'll really like the futon I put in the sitting room. Goes great with the blinds. Affordable too."

Draco's eyes flashed and before Harry realised what was happening, Draco had a fist around his necktie and yanked him close enough for Harry to see each pale, individual lash around Draco's steely eyes.

"I know you think you're funny, Potter, but I swear to Merlin, if I see one drop of red paint or scrap of poly-blend, it'll be your arse."

"What about my arse, exactly?" Harry teased.

Draco's lips curled the corners. "Don't tease me, Potter. I don't think Mother Weasel will appreciate it when I throw you onto the nearest table and stick my hands in your trousers. It would completely ruin the floral arrangements, and semen stains are notoriously troublesome to get out of linens."

Harry blinked rapidly as his brain stuttered to a halt and all the blood rushed south. There was something about hearing such filthy words in that posh accent. It did things to Harry's self-control.

"Get my coat," he said gruffly. "I need to say goodbye to Ginny."

Draco drew back so quickly Harry stumbled. But then he was gone, off in search of Harry's jacket.

It took a bit of searching before Harry found Ginny. She was tucked away from the party at the edge of the garden, perched on a crumbling rock wall with her skirt rucked up to her knees. She wore red Converse trainers under the yards of sparkling white tulle, and there was a very full glass of whisky in her hand. She saw Harry approaching and her lips twitched.

Harry hopped onto the wall next to her and bumped her shoulder with his own.

"Well, what do you have to say for yourself?" Harry asked.

"You're welcome," she said, her smirk growing toothy.

"You're a meddler, just like your mum."

"Maybe so. But if it weren't for my meddling, you'd be sitting there brooding into your cake instead of making disgusting sex faces at Malfoy all afternoon," she said, fake gagging into her hand.

"How did you find out?"

"Luna, of course. I thought she was just being daft as usual. But Malfoy was about as subtle as a brick through a window when I confronted him. I think he might be a bit gone on you."

Harry studied his hands. "Maybe," he admitted. "Am I mental for even considering this?"

"Oh, definitely," she said, nodding enthusiastically. "Without a doubt."

Harry sighed and carded a hand through his hair.

"But it might be good for you," Ginny said. "A little mental can be fun. And Merlin knows you need some fun in your life."

"It could go horribly wrong. I mean, completely catastrophic."

She shrugged. "So can everything else. Be brave, Harry. I know you're capable of it."

"And what about you? You ready for married life?"

She sighed and swayed, kicking out both legs. "I have no fucking idea, but I guess it's too late now, huh?"

"Um, yeah," Harry said. "I'd say so."

"Oh well, guess I'm stuck with him then." She grinned and gestured with her chin to where Draco was standing, Harry's coat in hand and a grimace on his face as Ian stumbled toward him. "Should we rescue them?"

"Oh, probably. But I'm inclined to see how it plays out."

Harry looked at his friend. Ginny's smile was both teasing and warm, and Harry couldn't help but return it. Ginny looped her arm around Harry's elbow and kissed the side of his face.

They looked back to where Draco and Ian stood. To their surprise, the two shared a smile, then Ian laughed and threw an arm around Draco's shoulder.

"Be happy, Harry," Ginny said. "Go shag that obnoxious bugger. Forget about the world for a minute. It'll all be there when you're ready to come back."

"What did I do to deserve you?" Harry asked.

Ginny's smile was soft. "Save the world. Once or twice."


	23. In which Draco waxes poetic about Harry Potter

Draco collected Harry’s suit jacket from the table then finished his abandoned glass of champagne — not that he needed it, because the drunken giddiness Draco was currently experiencing had nothing to do with the alcohol. The wedding itself was an utter nightmare, one Draco would not wish on his worst enemies. The company was obnoxious, the decorations were gaudy, the wine was cheap, and the food — well, the food was rather nice. But Draco would have willingly suffered it ten times over because Harry said _yes_. Harry said yes, and soon Draco would be back at Harry’s cottage in Welwyn, kissing him into cotton sheets.

He supposed that it was a rather romantic sentiment, and one he’d never entertained before Harry. But damn it all, if Harry required wooing then Draco would bloody woo him.

Draco spotted Harry across the party, sitting next to Ginny Weasley on a garden wall. Their shoulders were pressed close together, faces just inches apart as Weasley bumped the toe of her red trainer against Harry’s calf and he smiled at her. The intimacy between them was so painfully obvious, and Draco’s heart gave a nasty little pang. All he wanted to do was dash up, grab Harry by the collar, and apparate him away. But Draco held back and waited. He wasn’t inclined to admit it, but he owed the Weaslette a debt of gratitude. She was brash and nosy, and he wanted very badly to dislike her, but without her, Draco very well could have lost Harry forever. So Draco would play nice with the rabid pack of gingers, albeit grudgingly. And maybe he wouldn’t thank her openly, but he hoped that the voucher for a week-long stay at his favourite resort in Antigua would communicate his gratitude. That was, if she managed to extract it from the Vitamix first.

Draco took a moment to stare unabashedly at Harry, not caring a lick who saw. He really was bloody handsome, and Draco planned to boast excessively about shagging an underwear model. Oh, and that the underwear model was also _Harry Potter_ — who was famous and important and agreed to have dinner with Draco _in public._ It was going to be brilliant. Draco was already planning the details, from what he would wear, to what he was going to convince Harry to wear, where they would go, what they would order, how long they’d last before Draco paid the bill and dragged him home.

Draco was deep into a daydream about chocolate torte with two spoons when he was knocked loose by a towering man with tawny hair and blue eyes, wearing a dark suit and stinking of lager. The man steadied himself by throwing an arm around Draco’s shoulder and shouted directly into his ear.

“You know, normally I’d slug a bloke for looking at my wife like that, but I’ll give it a pass this time. She is bloody something, isn’t she?”

“Your wife?” Draco looked at the man next to him, grimacing when discovered him mere inches from Draco’s face. He was vaguely familiar, and Draco supposed he must have been the groom. He hadn’t bothered to notice anyone at the altar aside from Harry. There was just no competition. “Oh, you’re Mr Weaslette. Congratulations.”

“Thanks, mate. You a friend of Gin’s?”

“Oh yes, best of. My invitation was even hand-delivered.”

Across the garden, Ginny leaned forward and kissed Harry on the cheek.

“I should probably be worried that my wife is kissing Harry Potter on our wedding day,” Mr Weasel said with a frown.

“I’m handy with a long-range stinging hex, if you’d like to turn a blind eye,” Draco muttered.

The man turned to him and laughed. “Cheers mate.” He held out his hand, which Draco shook. “I’m Ian. You must be Draco.”

“Mm, you’ve heard of me. That can’t be good.”

“Well, if you aren’t making cow eyes at my wife, then you’re probably making them at him,” Ian gestured toward Harry. “Which means you’re ‘that sniveling ferret who’s sniffing around our Harry.’ Ginny’s words, not mine, of course,” Ian said, pressing a hand against his chest in sincerity.

“Of course. So glad to be held in such high esteem,” Draco drawled.

“Ginny worries about him,” Ian remarked.

“Everyone worries about him.”

Ian treated Draco to a quizzical look. “Yeah, you might be right. We weren’t sure you’d show.”

Draco scoffed. “Are you joking? Look at him.”

Ian laughed, and Ginny and Harry looked back at them. Ian threw a drunken thumbs up. Draco rolled his eyes.

Harry jumped down from the garden wall, and Ian took that as his cue to accost them. Ian gave Harry a firm handshake as he passed, and he took Harry’s place next to Ginny. He promptly threw an arm around her and sent them toppling backward into a patch of daisies.

“Ready?” Harry asked as he approached.

Draco held out Harry’s jacket and helped him shrug into it. “More than,” he said.

Harry extended his hand and grinned. Draco took it without hesitation.

Harry’s apparition was perfection, as always, and they landed firmly on the front stoop of Harry’s house. It was just shy of dusk and the last rays of light leaned across the hills, silhouetting the cottage against the setting sun.

Harry reached for the doorknob, but Draco stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“Tell me you didn’t really paint the kitchen red.”

Harry smirked. “And what if I did?”

“I’ll be very cross that you ruined all my hard work,” Draco said. He took a step toward Harry, then another, crowding him against the front door.

Up close, Draco could smell the sweet woodiness of Harry’s cologne. He saw Harry’s eyes dilate, watched black consume green, as they flicked to Draco’s lips. Draco lifted one hand, his fingers curling around the side of Harry’s neck, feeling his pulse thump beneath his palm.

Harry’s smirk softened and Draco’s heart stuttered. They stood on the threshold in silence for those few moments, and Draco felt as though there was an eternity in them. Instinctually, he wanted to brush it away, to let the aching lust that burned in his gut every time he bloody looked at Harry consume him, to drive him forward, to send them careening through the door and in straight into bed. He wasn’t sure he knew how to do it any other way. He’d never really tried.

He kissed Harry softly, just once. Harry sagged against him immediately, but though it pained him, Draco pulled away. Harry’s eyes were still closed, and his mouth curved into a bow.

“Come on,” Draco said, his voice a low murmur. “Show me what you’ve ruined.”

Harry’s eyes flicked open and his small smile grew into a grin. Harry turned the knob on the door, sending them stumbling over the threshold.

Harry waved his hand and the lamps lit. Draco stalked immediately to the kitchen.

“Buttercream,” Draco said and sighed with relief.

Harry’s kitchen was cheerful and homey, if a little bare. There was a kettle on the stovetop and a large, empty table with six chairs. The wedding invitation was pinned to the fridge, and there was an odd painting of a deer hanging to the left of the door. What it lacked in furnishings, it made up for with the white-trimmed bay window that looked out over the front walkway. Unlike the kitchen at Grimmauld Place, Draco could easily imagine Harry here. Draco was sorely tempted to dig through the icebox or poke around in the cupboards, just to see what Harry kept there. He was curious about what Harry liked to eat, what biscuits he preferred with tea, if he was the type to keep the ice tray filled, or kept tomatoes in the fridge. But Draco restrained himself. If he had his way, he would have plenty of time to snoop later.

“Nicely done, Potter,” he said with an approving tilt of his head. “Show me the rest?”

Harry nodded and Draco followed him through the foyer and into the sitting room. It was lovely. It was bloody perfect. Warm, comfortable, and masculine, in tones of chocolate, caramel, and cream. There were two wingback chairs across from the fireplace and a large sofa. The hearth was adorned with a few knickknacks — a golden snitch in a glass case, a photograph of Granger and Weasley looking besotted in formal wear, a childish drawing in crayon. Much like the kitchen, there weren’t many personal touches — no art on the walls, dogeared books, or discarded newspapers — but that would come with time.

Draco approached the sofa and ran a hand across the plush upholstery. He turned to Harry, who leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest.

“The Bernhardt.”

Harry shrugged. “Someone told me it went well with the curtains.”

Draco stepped up to Harry and tugged lightly on the lapel of his jacket. “Anyone who says you’re stubborn just hasn’t figured out how to persuade you properly.”

“Persuade me? Draco, you earmarked the page in the catalogue, circled it in pen, and pinned it open to the table with a sticking charm. You gave me a twenty-minute lecture on why undertones matter.”

“Shut up, Potter. Let me have this.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but his smile was fond. “Ever think about being a decorator?”

Draco threw back his head and laughed. Because truthfully, no. He’d never thought about being anything, really.

Draco bit his lip, studied Harry’s face. “Do _you_ like it?”

“The sofa?” Harry asked. “Sure. It’s comfortable. I took a nap on it yesterday.”

“And… everything else?”

Harry looked around the sitting room of his little cottage over Draco’s shoulder.

“Yeah, I like it. It looks like me, feels like me,” he said and turned his glittering gaze back to Draco. “But it’s got you written all over it.”

Draco stopped breathing. Harry remained leaning casually against the wall, but Draco felt the air shift—a change in pressure, a tension between molecules.

“I didn’t realise it at first. Not until you were gone, and I was here alone and the packages arrived. God, dozens of them. I didn’t even know what half of them were. But then I started going through them and I remembered that this is the chair you said would be the best for reading in the winter. This coffee table was perfect because I wouldn’t be able to scuff it easily with my boots. The shelves are good for photographs. The kitchen table will seat at least six, eight if we’re friendly. You picked all of them. For me.” 

Draco squeezed his eyes shut. “Why didn’t you come, Harry? After your birthday?”

He didn’t have to see Harry to imagine the puzzled look on his face. He could hear it in the way he stilled, in the tone of his voice when he spoke.

“You really wanted me to?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Draco said immediately and without hesitation. “I have all my cards on the table here, Harry, and I need to know if you’re going to change your mind in the morning.”

“I’m sorry I left,” Harry said. “And I’m sorry I didn’t come back. I was confused.”

“And now?” Draco asked and opened his eyes.

Harry’s brows were drawn together, and Draco saw his throat bob as he swallowed. “Still confused about most things, but not about that.”

“You’re certain?”

Harry nodded once.

“Have you brought anyone home, Harry?”

Harry’s frown deepened, but he shook his head. “No.”

“Just me?”

“Just you.”

“I don’t share well,” Draco said.

Harry’s lip twitched upward. “I’m shocked.”

“I’m selfish,” Draco continued.

“I know.”

“Obsessive.”

“I _know_.”

“And you still say yes?”

Harry didn’t speak for a moment. He studied Draco’s face, eyes flickering across his features, down his neck, to where Draco’s hands twisted together between their bodies. Not touching — hovering, waiting.

“I know you,” he said finally. “I know who you are. And I still say yes.”

The words barely fell from Harry’s lips before Draco’s hands were on his face, holding it between his fingers. And when Draco pressed his mouth against Harry’s, he found it warm and yielding. He tilted his head and Harry opened beneath him. At the first brush of their tongues, heat licked through Draco’s veins and he nearly buckled beneath it.

He braced himself against the wall behind Harry’s head, and Harry’s arms curled around him, one around Draco’s waist and the other at his neck. The warmth of Harry’s hand against the bare skin at Draco’s throat was the only thing keeping Draco grounded.

Draco had endured plenty of kisses in his life. Some of them weren’t even half bad. Some were even so good he wanted another. But none of them were like Harry’s. Kissing Harry was _magic._ Draco was surprised that the earth kept spinning, that the tides bothered to change, that the sun would even consider bloody rising again because it was as if everything shifted. Draco’s entire world dismantled itself and rearranged its pieces around Harry. Draco wasn’t sure how he’d convinced himself he could return to his old, empty life — not after this. It would be like every night without moonlight. Coffee without cream. Sex without love.

It was so easy to lose himself in Harry’s touch. It was both gentle and commanding, always firm, never hesitant. The way he held Draco’s body in the cradle of his palms made Draco feel like a wild, untethered thing. Even though he had Harry pressed against a wall, it was Harry who held Draco at bay, and it only made Draco want to consume him more completely. He wanted to rip at Harry’s beautiful suit, tear at his clothes until he got to skin. He wanted to mark that skin, to burn his name into Harry’s flesh with his hands and his mouth.

Draco felt Harry’s grip on his jaw flex and tighten, and then there was a space between them, a gaping chasm between their mouths as Harry pulled away from the kiss. Draco’s eyes snapped open.

Harry was flushed pink from his cheeks to the triangle of exposed skin where his tie came loose at his throat. Draco buried himself in that small corner of flesh, dragged his nose against Harry’s neck, bit at the line of his shirt collar.

He felt Harry’s throaty chuckle as a vibration beneath his teeth.

“God, fuck,” Harry gritted as he tried to pull Draco away. “Easy,” he soothed.

Draco’s hands against the wall balled into fists. “No,” he growled.

He licked Harry’s chuckle from his lips, and nipped away the groan that followed.

Draco didn’t kiss this way, not with anyone. Never, ever in his life had he wanted to press himself against another body until it bruised, leaving his imprint on Harry’s skin—but that was exactly what he wanted. He wanted to imprint himself on everything that was Harry’s. He wanted his teeth marks on his neck, his come painted across his skin. Even more than that, he wanted his shirts in Harry’s closet, his shoes by the door, his brand of tea in the cupboard next to the bloody English Breakfast. He wanted access to Harry’s wards, he wanted his books on the shelf, he wanted traces of himself on every inch of Harry’s life so that Harry would be forced to see Draco in everything. He wanted to weave himself into the fabric of Harry’s life until he was engrained and inextricable.

Draco was lost, fevered, and sick. And when Harry tugged on his collar, pulling their mouths apart, Draco gulped in a breath, his mind swimming.

“Hey,” Harry murmured, his lips so close they grazed Draco’s own when he spoke. Harry’s hands were at Draco’s face again, fingers wrapped around his jawline, thumbs at the corners of his lips, holding him back with a gentle firmness. “Okay?” he asked.

“No, I’m not fucking okay,” Draco snapped before he realised he’d spoken.

Harry’s thumbs brushed the hollow beneath Draco’s cheekbones. “Breathe,” he commanded.

Draco sucked in a breath and released it. Harry was looking at him, perhaps a little concerned.

“You get lost sometimes,” he said. “In your head?”

Draco shook his head because no, that wasn’t right. He wasn’t thinking, and that was the problem. It was that his brain shut off entirely and all he could do was _feel_ and it was fucking terrifying. How was he expected to explain that to Harry? How could he to tell him that it was if like his chest was being cleaved open and he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to scream or cry or laugh because _he wanted this_. He wanted it more than anything in the world. And he was so bloody scared he was would lose it before he got the chance to appreciate it properly. He was scared he’d ruin it and there’d be nothing left of him.

He wasn’t in his head. He wasn’t examining his thoughts at all because he _couldn’t_. If he did, it would lead him to conclusions he couldn’t face, admissions and words he’d never spoken, thought, or even heard.

“Overwhelmed?” Harry asked.

The air stuttered out of Draco’s lungs. “Have you ever wanted something you never thought you’d have?”

Harry’s face pinched in a pained sort of way that made Draco’s heart break a little, though he wasn’t quite sure why.

“Yes,” Harry said.

“Well,” Draco continued. “It’s a bit like that.”

Harry closed his eyes for a long moment, his brows still drawn together, and the lines etched around his eyes more pronounced. But then his lashes fluttered open and his expression cleared and he took a step back.

“Come on,” he said, and held out one hand. “Come with me.”

Draco took his hand because anything else would be unfathomable.


	24. In which Draco understands the value of English Breakfast and a Weasley jumper

Draco took Harry's hand without hesitation and let Harry lead them up the stairs and down the hall.

There were nerves fluttering in Harry's stomach, but not because he was going to take Draco to bed — he had absolutely no reservations about that at all. Harry didn't often bring people home. There were his friends, on occasion, but they usually avoided Grimmauld Place whenever possible. Even now, he'd really only shared his new home with those closest to him: Hermione and Ron, of course, Ginny because she'd practically kicked down the door, and Luna because she was endlessly helpful and didn't ask too many questions. But that was it. He'd only owned the place a few weeks and during those weeks, Harry was consumed with work and with the wedding, with Draco. Mostly with Draco.

He was startled when Draco asked if he'd brought anyone home, because the answer seemed so obvious to Harry. No, of course he hadn't, and no, he didn't want to. But, in retrospect, he'd done Draco a disservice. While Draco never lied about who he was, never pretended, never said anything other than that he wanted Harry, unequivocally, in any way he could have him. Perhaps it hadn't been said plainly or sweetly, but it was in his movements, in his touch, in the way his clever gaze followed Harry everywhere. Harry _knew_ Draco wanted him. But what he'd wilfully ignored was _how_ Draco wanted him. He'd been completely blind. He deserved every cutting remark and every claim that Harry was a bloody idiot because, as it turned out, _he_ _was._

In his defence, Harry rarely found himself in such a position. Sure, people wanted him. Some even thought they wanted to be _with_ him. But they never really knew him. They had some idea of who he was, who they wanted to be when they were with him, but usually, those ideas had everything to do with fame and money. So Harry avoided attachment beyond the friendly forms. He'd resigned himself to a life without affection, without meaning to, and without even realising he'd thwarted it at every turn.

People didn't fight for Harry. Harry fought for them. He fought for his friends, because he considered them deserving. He fought for the people he encountered in his work—the weak, the suffering, the powerless. Harry didn't fight for love. He didn't fight for it when he lost Ginny. He didn't fight for it one single time when he might have felt a spark for someone, felt the lurch of something in his chest at a kiss, the ache to just be in a person's presence. Something in that realisation felt cruel and shameful — but in a life spent fixated on everyone else, it was rare that someone really took care of Harry.

But Draco did that. Perhaps Harry hadn't wanted the help, and maybe Harry's friends were too good and too kind to push—but Draco was neither good nor kind. And every time Harry balked, he just pushed harder. It was annoying and a little offensive, and most of the time, it just ticked Harry off. And yet, his entire life had changed in a span of eight weeks. Why? Because Draco Malfoy wasn't afraid of him. Draco didn't care about Harry's sensitivity or his tendency to brood. Harry had lived in more than just a dilapidated house, he'd settled into a dilapidated life, until Draco conjured a sledgehammer and started swinging.

The nerves that fluttered in Harry's gut were there because he wanted Draco to be pleased — hell, he wanted him to be _proud_. Perhaps it was silly and childish to be so worked up over furniture ordered from Muggle catalogues over tea and takeaway, or overgrown gardens, or views from bedroom windows that cast morning sunlight across white sheets. But it felt grown up to have a house that he chose, that was his alone. To buy furniture and say, 'this goes here,' and 'that goes there.' To be able to invite friends over. To invite someone into his bed and hope they would be there in the morning, and maybe even the morning after that.

If the look on Draco's face or the way he kissed were any indication, he was going to stay the night. And Harry was inclined to reward his bravery, his reckless persistence, his bloody obnoxious arrogance. He'd taken care of Harry when he didn't know he needed it, so Harry could take care of him when he was desperate for it. But not without a bit of a fight. It was _them,_ after all. Anything less would have felt like a lie.

Draco stilled in the doorway of Harry's bedroom. It was sparse and Harry knew it. He hadn't really done anything with the room, and it was the one place Draco seemed disinclined to impose his catalogues and colour swatches.

"You've not done a thing," Draco said, giving voice to Harry's thoughts.

"No," Harry admitted.

Draco turned and gave him a wicked smile, the sort that always made something hot and liquid churn in Harry's gut.

"You really are hopeless without me, aren't you?"

Harry shrugged. "Didn't see any reason to do much with it. Most of the time I spend in here, my eyes are closed."

Draco was still flushed pink and splotchy in a way that made his grey eyes burn even brighter. "I'll give you a reason to keep your eyes open."

Harry couldn't stifle the silly giggle that bubbled in his chest. "Such as?"

Draco's smirk stayed put as he placed a hand against Harry's chest and sent him stumbling toward the bed. The backs of Harry's knees hit the mattress and he let his weight give way, sinking down until he was eye-level with Draco's navel.

Draco hooked a finger into the already-loosened tie at Harry's neck and pulled the knot free, tossing the strip of black silk aside.

"It really is a beautiful suit, Harry. I'd hate to ruin it," Draco said, his accent sharp and his voice pitched low and deep. He plucked the buttons of Harry's shirt and popped them free, one by one, until it hung open at his chest.

Harry didn't hesitate to reach for him as he roughly untucked the crisp, white shirt from Draco's trousers and smoothed his hands beneath the fabric, up the warm skin of his back.

Harry wasn't delicate as he tore at the buttons at Draco's chest, leaving the shirt gaping as he yanked the jacket from his shoulders and threw it to the floor. He expected Draco to protest, but he didn't. He just sunk to his knees between Harry's thighs and looked up at him through his lashes.

"I've been thinking about this," he said as he ran his palms up Harry's thighs. "You have no idea how much."

"Have you?" Harry asked, his voice about two octaves lower than usual. He cleared his throat.

"Yes," Draco hissed.

Harry had to squeeze his eyes shut briefly because the sight of Draco on his knees, his shirt open and his hands — the hands that haunted Harry's every fantasy for weeks—were working deftly at the buttons of his trousers.

"What did I say about closing your eyes, Harry?"

Harry opened his eyes reluctantly. Draco's fingers were lithe and efficient, but they were also shaking slightly and jerky in their movement. Draco was desperate, and it was a heady sight. To see a man normally so composed, so elegant, turn quivering and wild-eyed between Harry's thighs was intoxicating.

"I honestly don't remember," Harry said with a gasp as Draco's knuckles skimmed over his cock, already thick and straining against his pants. "I'm not sure I could remember my name right now."

"Shall I remind you, _Harry_?" Draco purred his name with a throaty rumble. He tugged Harry from the confines of his trousers and pants, his fingertips skating across the bare flesh.

Harry's chuckle was ragged but amused all the same. "As often as you'd like."

It was true. Harry delighted in hearing Draco speak his name — a soft, trilling word in contrast to the way Draco spat his surname. But Draco didn't repeat it. Instead, he wrapped that clever tongue around the tip of Harry's cock and sucked it into the warm, wet cavern of his mouth.

Harry hissed through his teeth. Draco's tongue was as skilled around his cock as it was sharp around his words, and Harry was lost in the sucking, swirling, humming sensations. Draco ran the flat of his tongue across the slit and Harry's hips bucked involuntarily. Draco growled in response and curled the fist of his left hand around Harry's hilt, squeezing gently.

Harry leaned back, bracing himself on his palms, spreading his knees wider as Draco crowded against him. It felt fucking incredible, and Harry desperately wanted to let his lids flutter closed and lose himself in the sensation, to ride the cresting waves of arousal indefinitely — but he also couldn't bear to look away. There was something so lurid and sinful about watching Draco suck cock. He had a lovely mouth. Not plush and full, perhaps, but thin, wry, and twisting. It was expressive in the way it curled upwards or downwards, rarely flat. Even now, with his lips wrapped around Harry's erection, he appeared to be smirking.

Draco's eyes fluttered open, irises molten mercury. He felt Draco's right hand release its grip on Harry's thigh to drop into his own lap, groping at the buttons of his trousers. 

Draco's moan came moments later — reedy, desperate, and so fucking sexy that Harry's breath punched straight out of his chest. He could feel Draco's shifting. He could feel the way his right hand fumbled and twisted. He was stroking himself and gagging on Harry's cock and _holy fuck_ , what the hell had Harry been doing his entire life, settling for half-arsed blowjobs. A lifetime of kitten licks and hesitant hands — Harry felt like he'd been ripped off, been lied to — because Draco was wanking himself to the taste of Harry's precome and just the thought nearly sent Harry over the edge.

Harry threaded fingers through the tousled crop of pale hair at Draco's crown, down the back of his neck, where it was trimmed short and felt soft as silk. Draco responded by swallowing Harry down to the base where the tip of his cock pressed against Draco's flexing throat. Harry's quaking arms just gave out. He flopped back on to the mattress, felt as Draco readjusted, propping one elbow beside Harry's hip and used the leverage to impose a near merciless rhythm.

"Oh my god, _Draco_ ," Harry groaned.

Draco hauled off so abruptly that Harry's vision nearly whited out. He climbed across Harry to straddle his hips, shirt loose at his shoulders and trousers undone, his cock hard and flushed where it jutted past his zip.

He grabbed Harry by the hair behind his ears and kissed him, hard, their teeth clacking together.

"Say it again," he said.

"Draco," Harry murmured against his lips.

The moan that tore from Draco was guttural, animal, bloody _hot_ , and suddenly Draco was shucking his shirt and wriggling from his trousers. Harry took the moment of distraction to touch him, to run his hands across the exposed plains of his chest, to grip the firmness of his arse, because bloody fucking hell, the man's arse was heaven.

Draco turned his desperate attentions to Harry's clothes.

"Off," he demanded. "Get it off."

Harry couldn't help but chuckle, to move slower than necessary just to watch the fire light behind Draco's eyes.

"You are a bastard," Draco said. "You're doing that on purpose just to torture me."

"Shall I rip it then?" Harry teased as he eased the shirt from his shoulders.

"I don't fucking care if you vanish it, Harry. I'm offended that you even wear shirts. I mean honestly, look at you," he said and sunk his teeth into the tender skin just to the left of Harry's nipple.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Harry exclaimed, his body curling in at the shock of pain.

"Mm, yes," Draco hummed against his skin. "Swear like a Muggle. I like it."

Harry snorted at the utter ridiculousness of it and snagged Draco round the throat, dragging him away from the bites and nips he was peppering across Harry's chest to meet his mouth. 

Harry curled one arm around Draco's waist and threw him off balance, flipping him roughly to his back.

"Such a brute, Harry," Draco said with a smirk.

"Shut up, you like it," Harry grumbled as he situated himself between Draco's thighs. He ran the flat of his palm down Draco's chest to his hip, skipping over his erection in favour of the inside of his thigh.

"Hmm, yes, just like that, tell me what to do," Draco teased.

Harry gave him a firm smack on the inside of his thigh, where the skin was soft and vulnerable, and Draco let out a yelp, followed by a gasp. His eyes went wide.

"You'd like that wouldn't you," Harry said, voice little more than a growl.

"Yes," Draco hissed back.

Harry held up one hand and thought about lubricant, something slick and wet and already warm, and felt his palm fill, followed by the frisson of crackling magic that curled through his veins.

He thought he heard Draco whimper, but when he looked at him, Draco's eyes were squeezed shut tight and his lip clamped between his teeth. He held Draco's chin with the hand not covered in slick and kissed him lightly.

"Turn over for me," he said, and Draco did so without hesitation.

It was a view Harry was certain he'd never grow tired of because the miles of pale skin was quite a sight. There was a lovely curve to Draco's spine as leaned forward on his knees and buried his face into the pillow, fingers curling in the sheets.

Harry ran his fingers between the cleft of Draco’s arse, tickling against the rim of his hole and feeling it flutter as Draco’s breaths grew ragged. He worked the finger past the tight ring of muscle, twisting and stretching until Draco relaxed and released a shuddering exhale into the pillow.

Draco was beautifully responsive. Harry could feel the heat rise from his skin as it flushed beneath Harry’s hands. He was never still, twisting the sheets between long fingers and rocking just slightly, seeking purchase or friction or relief, of which Harry would give him none.

"Can you come like this?" Harry asked and pushed in a second finger.

Draco just groaned.

"Have you ever tried? I could do this for hours," he said. "I could spread you open, lick you until you're aching for it. I bet I could make you come from my fingers and tongue alone."

"Shut _up_ , Harry," he growled into the fabric.

Harry just laughed and twisted his wrist until he found exactly what he was looking for — the little bundle of nerves that made Draco writhe.

Harry worked him open slowly, mercilessly, skating across Draco's prostate every time the tension in his spine eased. Draco had his teeth clamped into the pillow and he was making the most gorgeous sounds — soft little groans in that deep velvety voice that went straight to Harry's cock.

Draco was pushing back against Harry's hand, fucking himself on his fingers, and Harry gripped him tightly by the hip to keep him still. The third finger went in easily, and Harry didn't know how much longer he could stand it. The inside of Draco's body was slick, hot and clinging, and Harry wanted nothing more than to bury himself inside and rut until he came.

Draco must have felt similarly, because he reached back and grabbed Harry by the wrist.

"Harry, _please_ ," he groaned.

Harry liked him this way – desperate and wanton. It was such a stark contrast to the snarky smirking and cutting words, though he found that rather sexy as well.

"No more. Please, I need you –" he groaned as Harry twisted his fingers once more, just to watch him squirm. "I need you to fuck me."

Harry removed his fingers slowly, carefully, patting Draco's hip when he'd pulled free.

"On your back," Harry said. "I want to see you."

Draco curled and flipped, propping his feet flat against the mattress and letting his knees drop open. His hair was a bloody mess, his cheeks flushed, and his eyes glassy.

Harry bent forward and kissed him. He had to. And Draco responded by hooking his ankles behind Harry's back and wrapping his arms around Harry's neck, fingers buried in his hair. Harry withdrew from their kiss just enough to get a hand to his cock and press it against Draco's hole, already so wet and loose, ready for him.

Draco nipped at Harry's lips and jaw as he breached him, then threw back his head and groaned when he pushed in all the way. Harry rocked his hips just slightly and Draco's eyes snapped open. His hands scrabbled at Harry's shoulders and tugged at his hair.

"Too much?" Harry asked, stilling.

"No," Draco said, his voice a deep rumble. "No, do it, fuck me."

Harry kept his movements slow and fluid, his hips rolling in gentle thrusts that felt altogether too much and not enough.

"Fucking hell, Harry, I'm not made of glass. I said _fuck me_ , are your ears working properly?"

Harry chuckled. "Gods, you're bossy in bed."

"I'm bossy everywhere and you know it.

Harry sat back on his heels, lifting Draco's arse and tipping his hips to get better leverage. He rucked Draco's knees around his waist and gave an experimental thrust, spreading his thighs wider to push in deeper.

Harry had to hold on to Draco's hips with his hands to continue to drive into him, but wasn't disappointed at all when Draco licked his palm and curled his fist around his own cock. The movements of his hand were harsh and erratic, and the flush was spreading over his chest rapidly. His eyes were shut tight and his mouth hung open, slack and spit-slick.

Harry was so consumed with admiring his beauty, lost in the throes of pleasure, that it almost came as a surprise when Draco's spine bowed, his body tensed and he spilled across his chest in sticky, pearl-white strands.

Harry groaned and tightened his grip on Draco's hips.

Harry wanted to pound into him, hard and relentless, but Draco reached up and grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, dragging Harry against him, kissing him hard. Draco's mouth was hot and wet and if Harry could just go a little harder, a little faster, he could come like this, their mouths fused together, sharing breath. But Draco had him by the jaw. The crumpled desperation had cleared from his face, to be replaced with something ruthless.

"You want to come, don't you, Harry? You're so hard, I can feel it. I can feel your heartbeat inside of me."

Harry held his breath and closed his eyes. Draco's hand snaked around his body to grab his arse, squeezing hard, driving Harry deeper but controlling his speed.

"You can't. Not yet. I've waited too long to have you, and this is what you get when you make me wait."

Draco hooked his ankles around the backs of Harry's thighs and rolled them. Harry slipped out and he groaned, but then Draco was mounting him, sinking down onto his cock so achingly slowly that Harry had to grit his teeth to keep his control.

Draco rode him hard and Harry pushed up to meet him on every thrust. And each time the telltale tingling would begin to build at the base of Harry's spine, ready to crest and send him toppling over the edge, Draco would stop — he would fucking _stop_. Sometimes he would reach down and squeeze the base of Harry's cock, pulling him back viciously from the brink.

Harry wasn't sure how long he spent on the verge, how many times he chased his orgasm only to withhold it at Draco's whispered command. Harry lost track of time. But Draco was hard again, and his beautiful fingers were curling around his own cock, stroking softly. He held his hand out to Harry.

"Make it wet," he said.

Harry groaned. He tried to focus his magic, but it felt volatile and imbalanced. He struggled to harness it to his will as he cupped his hand over Draco's and concentrated on the spell.

He heard Draco gasp and felt his palm curl beneath Harry's. "Oh my god. Incredible."

Harry opened his eyes to find Draco smiling delightedly. He bit his lip and dropped his hand to his erection, his pale lashes fluttering shut as he stroked. The slick sounds of Draco's hand against his cock were lewd and hypnotic. He was flushed again, and Harry wanted to touch him everywhere. He ran his hands across the flexing muscles in Draco's abdomen, then curled them around the jut of his hip bones.

"Good, Harry. So good," Draco murmured.

Draco's grinding movements in Harry's lap began to stutter and grow erratic, and his breaths came in desperate little pants.

"Make me come again, Harry. Just like that. Yes," he hissed. "God, fuck, _yes."_

Words devolved into gasps and mewls and Harry could _see_ it—knew the _exact moment_ Draco was going to come. His body stilled, and tensed, and he threw back his head, exposing the long, pale expanse of his throat.

" _Harry,"_ he cried as he came, shivering and spurting in weak pulses across Harry's chest.

Draco's arse clenched around Harry's cock and he nearly lost it, nearly fell over the edge with him. He wanted to so badly, but then Draco was speaking.

"Not yet, Harry," he whispered. "Not yet."

He was moving again, lifting his body just slightly, giving Harry the space he needed to thrust into him. Harry's hands were at his thighs, gripping and scraping marks into his pale skin. Harry was lost in the gnawing, aching desperation of it.

"Wait, just a little longer, love," Draco soothed. "Go slow. It feels so good."

Draco's hands were splayed across Harry’s chest, fingers dragging through the pearly fluid spilled across Harry's stomach. And then those fingers were in his mouth, pressing against Harry's tongue. It was spicy and a little bitter and so fucking filthy. Harry gripped Draco's wrist, holding his hand to his mouth as he licked his fingers clean.

He heard Draco chuckle brokenly. He held Harry's face in his hands like he was something precious and kissed him — his tongue moving against Harry's and causing the heat at Harry's groin to build and build until he was burning alive.

"Take what you need, Harry," Draco murmured against Harry's lips. "Come now."

Harry nipped Draco's bottom lip, gripped his hips firmly, and drove himself deeply into Draco's pliant body. He did it again and again, and all the while Draco just stroked his hair and pressed kisses into his brow.

It built quickly, the heat licking and curling through his gut. Draco was gasping with him now, mouths just millimeters apart and Harry couldn't stand it. As the tension pulled whipcord tight, he crushed Draco's mouth against his own and came. It was explosive and Harry was reeling, falling through space and blackness, tethered only by the feel of Draco's lips and tongue against his own. They kissed as Harry came down, as the burning turned to tingling and the aching eased into overwhelming pleasure.

Harry slipped from Draco's body and dared to open his eyes. Their foreheads were pressed together and Draco's eyes were still shut tight.

A rumble started in Draco's chest and tumbled from his lips. He was laughing, soft amused little huffs, and smiling so brightly it was like looking into the sun.

Harry couldn't help but crack a smile and Draco's laugh grew bolder. Draco sat up, still straddling Harry's lap, and opened his eyes.

" _You_ ," he said, still chuckling, deep and throaty. "You have ruined me. Where have you _been_ all this time _?"_

Harry grinned and felt like his heart might burst from his chest. "Exactly where you left me," Harry said.

Draco's laugh settled into a pleased hum. He removed himself from Harry's lap and collapsed next to him. He curled around Harry's side, one arm thrown over his chest. It felt surprisingly good. Harry didn't usually like to cuddle after sex, but this felt different. Draco's body next to his own was solid and comforting.

"I think I'm going to have to keep you," Draco murmured as he settled against Harry.

Draco couldn't see it, but Harry fell asleep with a smile on his face.

****

Harry woke the next morning cocooned in warm blankets. It was still early, the sun just barely casting its watery dawn light across Harry's face. His muscles ached and when he stretched, about ten different things popped and cracked in an immensely satisfying way.

He suffered a moment of disorientation when he discovered he was alone, spread across the bed in a tangle of sheets and limbs. But the bed was empty, as was the rest of the room. Harry pushed up on his elbows with a frown.

Draco's shoes were in the corner, neatly lined up against the wall, and his pale grey jacket was tossed over the doorknob. Harry heaved a sigh and flopped back onto the pillow.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd woken up to someone else in his house with him—someone that wasn't Ron or Hermione — someone who'd spent the night in his bed. He wondered what Draco was doing, alone in Harry's house while he slept. It was strange, but Harry could imagine him perfectly — at the table in the kitchen, applying sticking charms to dog-eared magazine pages or fussing in the cupboards, looking for anything other than PG Tips.

Harry smiled and scrubbed his hands across his eyes and just held them there for a moment, letting the colours dance across the backs of his eyelids. His chest felt full to bursting, and he was suffused with excited anticipation. And when was the last time he'd woken up with that feeling? When was the last time he'd woken up feeling anything other than dread, disappointment, or anxiety?

Harry blew the air from his lungs steadily through his mouth, grabbed his glasses from the nightstand, and then pushed himself out of bed. He snagged a pair of joggers from the drawer and padded out into the hall barefoot.

Draco wasn't in the kitchen, though there was a cup of tea steaming under a familiar Stasis charm. Harry grinned and grabbed the cup, took a sip, and found it perfect.

Draco wasn't in the living room, curled up on the Bernhardt, or fussing with his appearance in the toilets.

He wasn't in the study, rearranging Harry's bookshelves or straightening the photo of Harry, Ron, and Hermione in front of Hogwarts looking young, fresh-faced, and painfully new.

He did, however, find him in the garden, seated in the teetering and paint-chipped chair that Harry hadn't got around to binning yet. Draco's legs were stretched out in front of him. He had on the posh trousers from the wedding, but his feet were bare – long, thin, and startlingly pale. There was a cup of tea in one hand, while the other held a lit cigarette between two fingers, smoke curling from the cherry-red tip. He was wrapped in something woollen and warm — something hand knit and most certainly emblazoned with a gigantic red H.

Harry could only see the back of his head, but then Draco turned, saw Harry, and his face lit up like the bloody sun. Harry was pretty sure his own could match it in brilliance.

Harry rounded the little chair and bent down to kiss his cheek – which felt odd and new, and Harry didn't hate it one bit. Draco smelled of smoke, bergamot and sweet cream — but also a little like the woods, a little like _Harry_ , but still cut through with sharp bright citrus.

"Nice jumper," Harry said with a smirk and settled into the other chair.

Draco sipped his tea and Harry could see the curl of his lips beneath the steam.

"I think it looks rather good on me, don't you?"

Harry hummed his agreement. Draco held out the cigarette to Harry, but he shook his head.

"Suit yourself," Draco said.

"I only smoke when I'm drunk. Or brooding. That's what Ron says, at least."

"Not feeling particularly broody today, Harry?"

"Not particularly. Although I might find a little room in the schedule for some light scowling."

Draco laughed with his head thrown back and Harry's chest fluttered furiously.

"I bloody hope not," he said. "I have a very tight schedule and I'd prefer you not ruin it."

"Oh?" Harry said, surprised. "What do you have on?"

"First, you're going to make me breakfast and I'm going to drink about ten more cups of tea because I'm fucking knackered. Once I'm finished with that, you're going to fuck me over the breakfast table while I admire the undertones in that shade of yellow in the morning, because honestly, it's perfection. Then maybe we'll manage a shower, and a nap if you require it, because I have every intention of making you come in every single room in this bloody house at least once."

Draco glanced at Harry out of the corner of his eye and smirked. Then he carried on smoking and drinking tea and staring into Harry's messy little garden while Harry just grinned at him, lip caught between his teeth.

"Let's go to Greece," Draco said, à propos of nothing.

"What? Now?" Harry asked, startled.

"Not now, you idiot. I already told you, we're on a schedule today. But soon."

"Why Greece?"

"Because it's gorgeous and warm, and I'd quite like to spend a few days or weeks with you in some very small European swim shorts on the Mediterranean. Come with me. We'll eat olives and drink ouzo and fuck on white-sand beaches. It'll be brilliant."

"You're a romantic," Harry said. A surprised little smile on his face.

"Never in my life have I been accused of such a thing," Draco said with a scoff. "What have you done to me?"

"I've never been to Greece," Harry said.

Draco rolled his eyes. "You've never been anywhere."

"That isn't true," Harry protested. "I went to Ireland once, for a Quidditch match."

"How ever did you survive the culture shock?"

"I managed, though I could barely understand a word anyone said."

Draco snorted, then took another drag of his cigarette. "Stick with me, darling, we'll see the world."


	25. In which Draco wins the game

They adhered to Draco's schedule, mostly. Harry really was quite easy to persuade, so long as one knew the proper tactics – and Draco was one hell of a quick study. He confirmed during breakfast that Harry was extremely susceptible to hair pulling, and a little tug at the tendrils that curled sweetly behind his ears was a surefire way to get Harry to do as Draco asked. For example, Draco preferred coffee in the mornings and suggested Harry make it for him, without his wand, from Draco's lap. Harry was also rather weak over a bit of arse-grabbing and ended up spilling the coffee all over the floor when Draco gave him a firm squeeze. But it was no matter, Draco got his chance to enjoy those buttercream undertones while bent over the kitchen table.

Draco didn't stay in the Weasley jumper for long, thank Merlin. Although he could admit the thing was quite warm, and soft, and smelled like Harry—which was quickly becoming both comforting and arousing in equal measure.

They spent the afternoon shagging, only taking breaks for tea and biscuits (Harry preferred the chocolate digestives) and to flip through catalogues side-by-side in Harry's bed. Harry would need an armoire and probably a lamp or two, definitely some curtains.

The photo of Harry's mum was the only bit of decoration in the bedroom. It sat on Harry's bare dresser, right in the centre. Draco ran his fingers over the dark wood frame and watched as Lily Potter smiled and laughed out at him.

"For a man with so many friends, you are severely lacking in photographs," Draco remarked. "Have you been to Pansy and Lovegood's flat? The place is absolutely plastered with them."

Harry halted his rummaging through a cardboard box of clothing. "Oh, yeah. I'm working on it." He dropped the t-shirt he was fixing to put on, which was a relief. Draco was considering burning all Harry's clothes and forcing him to walk around starkers all the time.

"That's good," Draco said, distracted by the way Harry's stomach muscles flexed when he raised his arm and scratched his head.

"Actually, Hermione got me something for my birthday to help with that." Harry turned and opened a drawer in the bedside table and extracted an odd sort of black plastic box. "Ever seen one of these?"

Draco shook his head. Harry collected a little stack of white squares from the drawer as well and approached Draco. He pressed a button on the black box and the top portion opened with a noisy click.

"It's called a Polaroid. It's a sort of Muggle camera. But Hermione charmed this one, so it takes magic photos. Not fancy ones—pretty simple ones, really. But I think they're quite cool," he said with a shrug.

Harry handed Draco the white squares and he flipped through them, one at a time. They were a series of photographs, all of which moved, but only slightly. There were pictures of a stack of burnt waffles surrounded by curling grey smoke, of Weasley's smiling face and Granger's chagrinned one, of Weasley in an alarming pair of orange pyjama bottoms, of the Weaslette and Harry with their arms thrown around each other. There were also pictures of mundane things, like a bird with its feathers ruffled, a flower in the breeze, what appeared to be a blurry shot of Harry's hand.

"Oh, yeah, that was an accident," Harry said, gestured to the last one, and blushed.

Draco's heart clenched. It just tightened until it hurt — and then it burst, expanding and blooming and suffusing him in warmth.

He loved him. He fucking _loved him_. How was it even possible that someone like Harry could exist? A man so powerful, so revered, so bloody handsome, who went around taking pictures of ruddy pigeons and breakfast food and friends in their tatty pyjamas. He was perfect, even in all the ways that he wasn't. He was moody and more than a little oblivious, and he had a maddening tendency to deflect. But to Draco, he was perfect. Everything Draco felt he lacked Harry made up for in spades.

Draco hauled Harry in by his neck and kissed him. He had to, because Harry was standing there holding that silly camera in his pants with his smudged glasses, looking bloody gorgeous, and Draco just wanted to eat him alive.

Harry barely had a chance to huff out a surprised laugh and toss his camera onto the bed before Draco was kissing him into the mattress.

Draco sat back, settling himself on Harry's lap to look down at him as Harry straightened his glasses and smiled up at Draco.

Draco snagged the camera from where Harry had tossed it. He looked through the viewfinder. Draco had no idea how a Muggle camera worked, but he'd seen in films that if you looked through the glass bit that was generally a good start.

"Come on then, Potter, give us a look," he said and pointed the camera at Harry.

Harry flushed pink. "Oh my god, Draco. No."

Draco lowered the camera to fix Harry with an exasperated look. "Seriously? Harry, I've seen literally hundreds of photos of you."

Harry's eyes went wide. "Have you?"

"Not like it's hard. You're bloody everywhere." He looked through the viewfinder again. "What do I do now? How do I take it?"

"You say 'cheese' and it does it automatically."

Draco dropped the camera again to cuff Harry on the side of the head, which made Harry giggle in a way that absolutely turned Draco's insides to mush.

"I'm not an idiot, Potter. I mean what button do I press?"

"This one here," Harry said and lifted his hand to tap the button on the right side.

"Alright, now, do something sexy."

Harry snorted and rubbed a self-conscious hand through his hair, a fetching half-smile on his face.

"Perfect," Draco said and snapped the photo. The thing made a terrible racket and spit out a little grey square just like the others.

"That was the photo?!" Harry exclaimed. "That's going to be shit."

"I promise you, it won't." Draco squinted at the square. "What's wrong with it? It's blank."

Harry took it from his hand and Draco flopped down next to him, pressing their shoulders together and turning his head so he could tuck his chin into the space beside Harry's ear.

"You have to wait. It takes a minute." He shook the square up and down, flapping it about. "They say it goes faster if you shake it. I'm not sure that's true, but I do it anyway, just in case."

Slowly, shapes asserted themselves, darkening and forming into Harry's lovely face and handsome smirk. It didn't move much, not like the photos taken by proper wizard cameras, but it did move. Mostly Harry just blinked once, averting his eyes, his smile going a touch crooked.

Harry tossed it to Draco. "Told you it would be shit."

Draco snatched it from where it landed on his chest and held it close to his face, examining every inch.

"It is not shit," he said softly. "I'm keeping this."

Harry turned his head so they were practically nose to nose. He was smiling and it was painfully sweet and yeah, Draco definitely fucking loved him.

"Okay, then I want one." Harry tugged the camera from Draco's hand and held it up backward, so the lens faced them. "Together, yeah?"

Harry hit the shutter just as Draco licked his ear. They ended up fighting over who got to keep that one, then proceeded to burn through the rest of the roll.

****

Draco returned to his own flat, eventually. Harry's clothes were comfortable, but they weren't suitable for public viewing, and they'd have to go out sooner or later. In fact, they had dinner plans the very next evening, and Draco fancied a trip to Harrods to get Harry a new shirt.

Draco's flat felt empty and a little cold after spending the last twenty-four hours wrapped up in Harry. The flat was nice, though he much preferred the cottage, because the Bernhardt really was comfortable, Harry's bedroom had much better light, the patio was a sweet touch, and his kitchen actually had food in it. Draco would need to consider furnishing his own place next, and he hoped he could convince Harry to help him. Maybe Harry would impose bits of himself on Draco's home too.

He tucked the photo of Harry into the corner of his mirror and surveyed the room. Most of Draco's things were still in suitcases, and he had to dig to find his dressing gown. He shucked the shirt he'd borrowed from Harry and wrapped himself in the cool silk. He hunted down a wine glass, still in its store packaging, and a bottle of Merlot he'd stolen from Blaise. He poured himself a generous glass and stood at the window.

The view was nothing special — just the street below, a little café, a few shops, another building filled with flats.

It was nothing like the panorama of the London skyline from Blaise's penthouse, nor was it the sparkling azure of the Mediterranean from Mother's flat in the Riviera. It wasn't the sea of flashing neon in Vegas, or the pastel stucco of Havana. It wasn't the tawdry red lights of Amsterdam, or the dusty ruins of Rome. It wasn't the garden view from the west-facing window of Harry's cottage in Welwyn. But it was _his,_ and for that reason, it was perfect.

Draco took a long drink of his wine, letting the rich cherry flavour and dry tannins roll over his tongue. He tucked one hand into his pocket and his fingers closed around a small box, its cardboard worn soft and thin at the corners. He set his glass on the windowsill and pulled the pack from his pocket. He shook the cards loose, shuffled them once, deftly flipped the ace in and out of his sleeve.

He wondered if Harry would play him again. Only this time, the stakes would be different. This time, it wouldn't be for clothes or sex, although Draco would never decline either of those. This time, the stakes would be higher. This time, he'd play for keeps. And Draco had never felt more certain that he'd already won.  
  


_Fin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for joining me on this journey! 2020 has been a fuckall year and getting back into writing fic has been such a huge source of joy for me – and that is primarily due to all of you! There is nothing more rewarding for a writer than knowing that people are connecting with your work. Seriously all the squeeing in the comments – ugh. Just light on a dark day. 
> 
> Reminder: I made this little [playlist for this fic.](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLP3oCsojwTHqfBWTC5K44WMX5R-rOnI6v) Mmm tastes of 1998. 
> 
> Connect with me on [Tumblr!](https://the-sinking-ship.tumblr.com/%22)


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